Evergreen
by Nade-Naberrie
Summary: When Christine's world crumbles, she returns to the man who had once loved her beyond all reason. But even if they can slay their own demons, will they be able to escape the wrath of those left in their destructive wake? COMPLETE.
1. Sanctuary

**A/N: Nearly four years, sixty-some chapters, and continual writer's cramp later… welcome, my friends, to "Evergreen!"**

**SETUP: This story takes place approximately one year after the chandelier disaster. Much has happened since then, and all will be revealed in time, but just so we're clear – although this is decidedly E/C, there will be absolutely no Raoul-bashing in this fic. I love the guy, and respect his relationship with Christine. But for reasons that will be revealed soon enough, that relationship is incapable of being continued.**

**RATING: This story is very deserving of its M rating – for violence, sexuality, and language. The Phantom's tale is one of passion, murder, and desire, and to deny any of those aspects, in my mind, is to dilute the story. But please do be mindful of the rating, and if you're too young to be reading this stuff, please come back again when you're a little older. I'd like to be able to fall asleep at night without the guilt of corrupting innocent twelve year old minds.**

**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: My characters are based on the physical representations of the actors in the 2004 movie, but that's not to say that you can't picture them as whichever versions you like. I use several incarnations of the story in this fic; I draw references from the movie, the original Leroux novel, Kay's "Phantom," and the ALW stage musical. Credit, of course, for all of the characters (save the OCs), borrowed lyrics, the plot thus far, etc., goes to the aforementioned creators.**

**The title of the story, if you hadn't guessed, refers to the (movie version) lyrics from "Think of Me": **_**we never said our love was evergreen, or as unchanging as the sea**_**…**

**Huge thanks to the lovely ladies who offered their services as betas for this fic: Marianne Brandon, for the first half, and Hriviel, for the better part of the second. I couldn't have done it without their knowledge and support!**

**Thank you from the bottom of my heart to the astounding number of readers and reviewers who have stuck with "Evergreen" for so long. I'm continually blown away by the response to this story! **

**Without further ado, buckle up and enjoy, you guys – it's going to be quite the roller coaster.**

Hard sheets of rain ripped at the small, broken figure as it stumbled blindly through the heart of Paris. Cloaked passersby were too hurried, too distracted by the violent storm to take any note of the woman as she ran, her head ducked against the storm, her chemise soaked through with rain and blood. Her calves seared and trembled from the effort, and twice she fell to the slick cobblestone streets with an anguished cry, only to struggle back to her feet and continue as if the Devil himself were on her trail. She paused only once as a wrenching pain sliced through her abdomen, and hunched over the crumbled brick wall of an abandoned bakery to retch violently.

The faint wail of sirens in the distance caused her red eyes to fly wide, however, and with a dry sob, she launched forward again. If she stopped, they would find her… they would take her back…

It seemed decades before her bleary eyes finally caught the glint of gold on Apollo's Lyre, a glittering speck on the gray horizon. Propelled forward by relief, she managed to double her speed – a feat she would have considered impossible an hour ago. Ducking through crowds of tourists huddled against the rain, she all but flew to Rue Scribe. Only there, in the shadow of the once-magnificent Opera Populaire, did her strides falter and finally cease altogether. It was as if the weariness of her journey suddenly hit her with one staggering blow, and she collapsed against the stone wall, panting between broken sobs.

"Oh God," she whispered, sliding down the wall and hugging her knees to her chest. _What am I doing here? _

She closed her eyes and prayed for death. Perhaps the Lord would be merciful and allow her to slip into blissful darkness…

The clatter of an approaching carriage was enough to jolt her from her tormented reverie. She lifted her head wearily to look, and slumped in relief when she saw that it was only a hansom cab, looking for customers still out and about in this terrible storm.

It would be so easy, she thought for a moment, staring darkly at the carriage… so easy to throw herself beneath the wheels and end this madness once and for all…

But she was too exhausted to clamber in front of the carriage, and she watched after it helplessly as it turned a corner and drove away, leaving her alone with the rain and her thoughts.

Every muscle in her frail body throbbed, but she leaned her weight against the stone wall and slowly pushed herself back to her feet. A fresh trickle of blood seeped down her thighs, and she shuddered involuntarily. It took every last ounce of strength in her frail, bleeding body to lurch forward, one hand still pressed to the wall for support, and slip through the crumbled brick wall to her right, out of the pouring rain and into darkness.

Silence pressed in on her like a living, breathing force as she staggered through the underground labyrinth. Slowly and tentatively, she placed one foot ahead of another, trying to ignore the layer of gritty slime that covered the stones beneath her bare feet.

It seemed that she walked for hours in the blackness, straining her ears for even the faintest whisper of sound to assure her that she was not alone in this hellish tomb. Her panic grew with every step. Surely he would have found her by now… surely she should have been met with either one of his death traps or the golden glow of candlelight from his lair…

Although she heard nothing, she stopped all of a sudden, the breath stolen from her lungs. The air around her was suddenly icy cold, and a quaver built at the base of her spine, pushing upwards until it erupted in a violent shudder.

He knew she was here.

The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she stumbled blindly forward, trying in vain to see in the pitch blackness. She had never in her life been afraid of the dark – nighttime had always been welcome, for it brought her Angel of Music. But now… now it was the Angel of Death who resided in these tunnels. Steeling her shoulders, she strode forward as calmly as she could. She had been a coward her entire life; let her say that she had, at least, died with some sense of composure.

But even that last scrap of dignity was ripped from her as she walked head-first into a solid, warm wall. A scream of surprise rose in her throat, but never took voice before a gloved hand clamped over her nose and mouth. She trembled like a leaf in Death's grasp, squeezing her eyes shut and mentally offering up her last confession and prayer of forgiveness.

So this was it.

Her prayers said, her duty as a Christian complete, she relaxed beneath the gloved hand, willing death to come soon. Why did he not simply strangle her, as he did everyone else? That, at least, would be fairly quick – one snap of catgut and she would cease to breathe. Her broken heart would still in her chest, and at last, at _last_, she would be free from her self-inflicted hell.

_Raoul, forgive me…_

Despite herself, she allowed her mind to turn to her husband, and in the darkness she pictured his sad, ocean blue eyes. Maybe her prayers, her confessions, would make no difference. Perhaps God would see her for what she was, and cast her into the fiery pit of hell for the rest of eternity.

A sob hitched in her chest, and a single tear slipped down her cheek. At the sound, the gloved hand suddenly jerked away as if it had been scalded. She felt, rather than saw, the owner's eyes boring into her.

"Christine?"

Nothing but her ragged breathing filled the silence.

**A/N: And clearly I had to begin with a cliffhanger. ;)**


	2. Phantom

**A/N: YAY! Reviews! I love you people! Here's an update for you as a reward. ("Solitude" phans… don't worry, I'll be updating over there pretty soon, but the chapters are longer so they take more time to write) I must tell y'all that this was a very difficult chapter to write; I caught myself saying "I" instead of "he" about twenty times. Old habits die hard. **

Erik didn't know what he was playing any more. His music had ceased to possess any determinable rhythm, melody, or regularity whatsoever; he had taken to simply pounding out his agony in the sharpest, most painful-sounding chords he could procure. Organ keys that had once been polished ivory were now a sickening brown, caked with the blood that seeped from his cracked and swollen fingers. If Erik had learned anything in his three decades of life, it was that physical pain inevitably faded with time. After so many lashes of the whip, the nerves would grow accustomed to the blinding pain and simply, blissfully, shut down. So it was with his mangled hands, which had screamed with white hot pain after the first twelve hours or so of this mad, frenzied pounding on the organ keys. But after his pinkies had fractured and all of the joints were swollen, he started to lose sensation from the elbow down, leaving him free to hammer away at the keys as long and hard as he pleased.

Ironic, really… Erik had spent so many years pretending to be a specter for the benefit of his young protégé, and now, thanks to her, it seemed that soon he would finally become one. Certainly now he was much less than human – he was a shell of a man, broken in body and in spirit. Sooner or later even his music would cease to keep his organs functioning. He had nothing to live for, not even the ego-spurring managers to blackmail or ballet rats to frighten witless. His opera house was dead and abandoned and, by default, so was its phantom.

Scattered amongst the rubble of his lair were pieces of broken furniture, ash-coated librettos, toppled candelabras, and pile upon pile of discarded newspapers. Only one paper had been set aside, a neat square cut from the sixth page. The clipping sat on top of the organ, its edges just now beginning to yellow.

_Le Comte Philippe de Chagny is pleased to announce the marriage of his youngest brother, le Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, to Christine Daaé, in a private ceremony on Sunday the twenty-eighth of February at la __Chapelle de Kernivinen, in Perros-Guirec__._

Never would Erik have been able to anticipate the staggering power that a single sentence could wield over his life; yet those simple forty words had managed to snuff out the last, dying flame of hope that had been smoldering in his heart for the past year. The paper had been printed a little over a month ago; he had hardly moved from his organ since.

At some point, he must have lost consciousness, for he woke some time later to find the good side of his face pressed against the organ keys. Somewhere deep in the labyrinth, he heard the steady dripping of water into a puddle.

_Drip… drip… drip…_

It was almost like a metronome, he mused somberly, ticking out the seconds before he passed from one hell into the next.

_Drip… drip… drip… SLOSH._

His green eyes flew open, every muscle in his body tensing suddenly. Without moving his head from the organ, he listened, and waited. Another few seconds and the sound came again. The hair on his neck bristled instinctively.

Someone was here.

Standing on legs that felt ready to give way beneath him at any moment, he staggered over to the edge of the lake, where his infamous Punjab lasso sat coiled in the bottom of his boat. Allowing his mind to become as numb as the rest of his body, he swung the catgut rope over his shoulder and found a pair of black leather gloves amongst the piles of clutter surrounding his organ. He hissed through clenched teeth as he slipped them over his ruined fingers. The gloves, at least, would help to keep his grip steady and firm for this one last murder. He would not have some drunken bum taking refuge in his eternal tomb. Let this fool be an example to all the other riffraff who dared to try to hide in his opera house! The Phantom did not take kindly to intruders.

Erik crept silently through the tunnels, his footing light and swift on the slick granite. It did not take long to find the exact location of the trespasser; he was breathing heavily, sloshing through puddles and stumbling in the darkness like a blindfolded rhinoceros. So oblivious was this intruder that Erik stepped directly in his path, not two meters in front of him, and the imposter did not even notice until he ran into Erik's chest.

Before the trespasser could draw in a breath to scream for help, Erik clamped his left hand over his victim's mouth, snatching up the Punjab with his right. His heart gave a pained wrench as his fingers fell upon smooth, delicate skin and full lips— this was certainly not a man. For a moment he paused, doubt flooding his mind. Never in his life had he intentionally killed a woman, and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to begin now. He could not see her face in the dark, but something about this intruder struck a chord in his heart. Perhaps it was the fact that she was perfectly still, unresisting to death. Did she, then, have a soul as anguished as his own? But no… he realized with another wrenching pain to his gut that he resisted killing this woman because… she reminded him of _Her_.

The lips beneath the curve of his palm bore a striking resemblance to those which had met his for the first time, gentle and imploring. Her skin was creamy and supple like that which he had stroked so tenderly as their voices rose to the heavens. This woman's cheeks were soaked; whether from tears or the apparent downpour he couldn't be sure. God, this woman even smelled like Christine… that beautiful combination of rosebuds and soap and sunshine which he had grown to love above all else.

Erik's victim held perfectly still in his harsh grasp, but beneath his gloved hand a shuddering sob escaped her lips.

And suddenly he knew.

He jerked his hand away from her face, his breath hitching in his chest. For a moment he could do nothing but stare, wide-eyed, in a vain attempt to make out her silhouette in the pure darkness.

"Christine?" he choked. She did not answer him; she did not need to.

A storm began to brew deep in the chasm where his soul once resided. All of the emotions that had ravaged his body and mind for the past year began to boil viciously in his veins, threatening to overwhelm him. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh, cry, retch, or collapse against the nearest wall – he wound up merely standing there like a statue, cold and still. Desperately he fumbled to calm the storm raging inside of him.

An angel had ventured into Hell, and the Devil himself quaked before her.

He bit his tongue to stifle a furious hiss. Damn it, he had been done. He had surrendered; he had let her go, watched her cling to her precious Raoul's shoulder as he poled her across the lake, back to the life of power and wealth that she deserved. Erik had clung to life just long enough to assure himself that she was properly wed – now the Vicomtess de Chagny, one of the most influential women in France – before surrendering himself to the flames of Hell.

Yet here she stood before him, trembling and silent; and, without a single word, she had conjured up the broken spirit of her Angel of Music.

Swallowing the onslaught of crushing emotions that boiled in his core, he did what he had always done when faced with a problem; he hid behind a mask of cold nonchalance.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice betraying nothing.

Her pitiful, heartbreaking sobs were his only reply for several moments. Erik's fingers burned with the need to hold her cold, trembling form against him until her tears ceased. He resisted by folding his arms menacingly across his chest. Fear had driven this child to submission in the past; he could only hope that it would work this time.

"Answer me, Christine."

She sniffled and whimpered softly. "I… Raoul, he…"

"Ah, yes." Try as he might, Erik could not keep the sneer from his tone. "Monsieur le Vicomte. Or should I say – your new husband." He dipped in a mock bow. "My fondest congratulations, Vicomtesse."

He could feel her glare singeing his unmasked face. "He is dead," she whispered.

His body went numb for a moment at this startling revelation. He felt no remorse whatsoever for the loss of the boy, aside from the pain that it was undoubtedly causing his new bride. After a moment curiosity won dominance over a new surge of emotions that swelled up within him.

"When?"

She sucked in a tremulous breath. "Ten days ago."

He paused only momentarily before responding half-heartedly, "I'm sorry."

"Don't say that if you don't mean it," she spat, her voice trembling with rage. "I know you've always hated him. Don't pretend otherwise just because he's dead." She gave an involuntary shudder, wrapping her arms tightly around her chest.

He fought hard not to laugh at her small show of defiance, settling for a raised eyebrow and a small smirk. "You're soaked," he commented absently.

"It's raining," she countered.

For several minutes he simply stood there, waiting for an explanation that he knew would not come. Her husband was dead… but why in God's name was she _here_? Certainly the estate had been left in her name. She commanded an army of servants who would see to it that her every need was tended to. It would only be a matter of time before a parade of suitors sought her hand; not only was she the most beautiful woman in the country – she was also one of the wealthiest. Aboveground, the entire world was spread at her feet. There was nothing and no one she could not have if she so desired it.

And yet she stood before him, soaked and shivering in the darkness. There was something else… something she was not telling him. He could tell already that it would take a great deal of coaxing to pry an explanation from her. In the meantime, she was probably catching pneumonia.

He sighed, finally making up his mind. "There's a fire and a fresh change of clothes if you wish to follow me. If not, you know your way out." With a small whirl of his cloak he turned on his heel and headed back toward his lair.

He let out a small, almost inaudible sigh of relief as he heard her footsteps following directly behind him.

**A/N: As it turns out, I received way more reviews for this story than I could ever possibly respond to – initially I did review responses for each of them, but by the end it became so time-consuming that I had to stop, or the story would never be updated. So rather than leave in those responses, I took all of them out completely, for standardization's sake. **


	3. Karma

**A/N: -hangs head in shame as I rewrite this particular author's note-**

**I… used to dislike Christine immensely. And by "immensely" I mean I enjoyed torturing her poor character far more than I should have. The more I wrote her, the more I understood her – in writing Christine's story, her motives, her emotions, it is nearly impossible to continue to despise her for choosing Raoul at the end of the film. **

**Anyway. This is the beginning of Christine's side of the story.**

She chewed her lower lip as she followed a few strides behind him. Internally she chided herself for expecting so much… she had half expected Erik to envelop her in his strong arms, weeping onto her shoulder as if greeting a long-lost child. She should have known that things could never be the same between them— it was her fault. She had hurt him, betrayed him, and yet she still expected her Angel to be waiting with open arms.

An involuntary shiver worked its way up her spine, and she quickly tucked the unbidden memories into the deepest corners of her mind. Her husband had not even been in his grave a week, and already she was longing for the arms of another man! She sickened herself, and tears flooded her eyes at the thought of her poor sweet Raoul.

She had not believed the news when the young officer arrived on horseback with the telegram. It had been a beautiful day— sunny and mild, unusual weather for Paris in early March. She had asked the maid to set tea out on the front patio so that she might enjoy the pleasant morning. When she saw the young man in a crisp blue uniform from a distance, her heart had thrilled, thinking that her husband had returned unexpectedly. She dropped her teacup in a most unladylike manner and sprinted for the gate, only to slow and flush at the sight of the young stranger.

She remembered very little of the niceties exchanged between them before he handed her the small white envelope with the seal of the British government. The officer would not meet her gaze as she opened it delicately and read the fine print several times over.

_Madame la Vicomtess,_

_It is with great reluctance that I inform you of the loss of your husband, Raoul de Chagny. There was an unfortunate accident during his voyage to London— the ship was caught in a storm off the coast of Brighton and demolished on the rocks just offshore. The rescue crews were unable to locate any survivors, but several of the bodies have been discovered and identified. Your husband's was among them. We have already contacted his elder brother for confirmation of your husband's identity, and his body is to be shipped to Paris on the next available ship. Again, I apologize for your loss, Madame la Vicomtess, and pledge my utmost condolences._

_Sincerely,_

_Captain Jacob T. Whelps_

_HMS Bohemian_

She had collapsed on the ground, pale and trembling, unable to speak. The officer had called for the maid, and Christine remembered nothing more before falling unconscious.

She had lain in bed for a week, weeping into her pillow until there were no more tears left to cry. Even still, she refused to get up, insisting upon spending every day and every night alone in her dark room, mourning the loss of her childhood sweetheart and beloved husband. Her food and drink went untouched, but she ignored the searing pain in her abdomen until she woke one morning and vomited until she choked up blood. The maid insisted upon calling the doctor, and Christine had been far too weak to object.

The de Chagny family physician delivered the second shattering bit of news to Christine in two weeks.

His hand had been gentle on her burning forehead as he injected sugar water into a vein in her arm. His kind blue eyes were watery and pained as he spoke quietly to her.

"You don't deserve this, Christine. I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but you have a right to know." He sighed and shook his head sadly, taking her hand firmly in his own. "My poor girl… you didn't even know you were carrying a child, did you?"

For a moment she could do nothing but stare at him until a cold realization stabbed her heart. "Were?"

The doctor had turned his head away, unable to look into her eyes. "I'm afraid you lost the baby, Christine." He quickly added, "You mustn't blame yourself… you didn't know..."

Her senses had glazed over after that moment. She did not see, nor hear, nor feel. She fell prey to the confines of her tormented mind, where her conscience refused to let her be.

_Murderer,_ a whispered snarl echoed. She screamed and thrashed, but no one could calm her. Finally the doctor administered a powerful sedative, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It was there that her last friend in the world, her only hope for survival, came to comfort her. She hovered on the opposite side of consciousness for three days, listening to the soothing voice of her Angel of Music. She sang with him, their voices melding in a spellbinding duet. They wept together, and she felt the tender brush of his lips on her temple.

"What am I going to do, _mon ange_?" she had asked her cloaked savior. "What am I going to do?"

She felt the gentle pressure of his fingertips under her chin, and looked up into his smoldering emerald eyes. "_Too long you've wandered in winter, far from my fathering gaze…_"

She had smiled, a single tear escaping down her cheek. "I'm coming."

The moment she had woken to the solitude of her dark bedroom, she had swept immediately out the window and into the pouring rain, clad only in her chemise. Hours later, she had met a very different man than the one in her dreams. He was painfully cold and distant, when all she wanted him to do was hold her and make reality fade as he had done so many times in the past. More than anything she wanted to drown in his soft, soothing tenor… to hear their lullaby and ascend into the realm of the music of the night. She was safe there with her Angel, her guide and guardian.

As they reached the edge of the glowing candlelight, she could only bite down harder on her lip and pray silently that she had not destroyed the soul of the one man who could resurrect her own.

**A/N: -squawk!- Mon Dieu, so many reviews :D You guys must like me or somethin. Haha. Well I'm thrilled that you're enjoying this story, because I'm having lots of fun writing it.**


	4. Decided

**A/N: Thanks to my cousin Sandy for giving me a wet smack behind the ear over this chapter… Erik was so frighteningly out of character it was sickening. I am astounded by the number of reviews this little phic is getting— I don't know how to thank you all! **

He must have opened his mouth a hundred times during their trek towards his home, drawing in a quick intake of air as if to say something of great importance. Each time, however, he would snap his jaw firmly shut, giving a reprimanding shake of his head. The air hung with a heavy silence; the tension between them was almost tangible. He did not have the nerve to peer over his shoulder to make sure that Christine was still following at his heels— he still clung desperately to the feigned air of indifference, keeping his distance from her physically while his soul ached to take her into his arms. Fortunately, his ears were accustomed to picking out her footsteps; he did not need to see Christine to sense her presence.

_Close your eyes, for your eyes will only tell the truth,_

_And the truth isn't what you want to see…_

How true those words rang at this moment! Bittersweet memories washed over him in waves at the thought of their song, their lullaby. He had added to it over the past few months, pouring his broken spirit into the hauntingly familiar melody. For a moment he followed his own advice, shutting his eyes against the overwhelming darkness that surrounded him. The action produced very little difference—the insides of his eyelids were just as dark as the tunnel around him— but somehow he felt more relaxed. It was childish, really… he still remembered huddling in the corner of the gypsy's cage, palms pressed hard against his eyes, telling himself that perhaps if he couldn't see the jeering onlookers, they couldn't see him. The thought had provided only temporary relief, however, before Javert's whip came cracking down upon his bruised and bloody back.

Erik shuddered at the memory, his eyes snapping wide open again. Nonexistent wounds still burned along his spine, but they faded gradually as he shifted his focus back to Christine.

They were nearing the edge of the candlelight's glow when a sudden sense of panic suddenly gripped Erik's nervous system, pressing down upon his lungs. His lair was an utter wreck; a combination of the fire, the mob, and three months of neglect made the place look as if a twister had just blown through. He didn't even want to think about how terrible _he_ must have looked. Giry's daughter had snatched up his mask when he had temporarily left his home during the fire, and he still had yet to send her a curt note demanding that she return the stolen item. His face was exposed, his wigs discarded somewhere in the junk pile near his organ, and he truly couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a bath. It was sheer obstinacy which propelled him to place one booted foot in front of the next and step into the warm glow of candlelight.

For the moment, he dared not look at her. She was no doubt soaked from the rain, her dress hugging every curve of her perfect form. The temptation would be too great to his lonely and deprived body to resist, and he would never forgive himself for taking advantage of a mourning widow. He kept his back turned to her, bolting for the safety of his organ even as he heard her halt at the entrance. If she were to leave now of her own accord, perhaps it would be better for both of them, he thought somberly.

But she did not move to leave, nor did she take another step forward. Without looking, Erik knew exactly what was happening. She was torn between nostalgia and duty, standing once again on the threshold of the point of no return. Christine knew as well as Erik did that if she were to return to him, the embers of a passionate and dangerous fire would be rekindled. Beyond the walls of the Opera Populaire lay the safe and predictable world of the elite— it was not too late to return to her husband's estate and wait out the appropriate mourning period before the wealthy suitors came to call. But within the dark and mysterious labyrinth beneath her childhood home lurked her broken Angel of Music, her last friend in the world, who had loved her more than life itself.

Erik squeezed his eyes shut painfully, his fingers moving slowly and despondently across the keys to remind her of her mournful song…

_And he'll always be there singing songs in my head_

_He'll always be there singing songs in my head…_

Behind him, he heard a quiet sob catch in her throat. The small sound pried at his heart, ripping at the seams until it threatened to burst.

He jerked his fingers quickly away from the organ, clenching his jaw tightly. Self-loathing boiled under his veins as he tried frantically to rein in his emotions. He could not and would not allow her to see the pain beneath his cautiously detached exterior. Even music could not be allowed to portray the emotions mounting up within him— it was better that he did not play at all.

Once he was sure that he could scrupulously regulate his features, he turned to his old pupil with a cold stare. "Indecision is quite unbecoming on you, Vicomtess. I have given you your options. If some sort of trouble awaits you outside, it is my obligation to shelter my guest until the danger has passed. But you are no longer bound to me. Leave when you wish; I will not stop you."

Christine's eyes flashed with a brief and powerful anger. "I did not remember the Phantom to be so open-minded."

Erik met her glare unflinchingly. "Are you awaiting orders, Madame?" he mocked, climbing to his feet in one fluid movement. "Very well, then." He took slow, deliberate steps toward her, his eyes boring into hers. When he was mere inches from her soaked flesh, towering over her trembling form, he balled his hands into fists until the nails cut into the flesh of his palms. He knew Christine would interpret it as a sign of anger, but truly he was restraining himself from doing something regrettable. A sopping wet Christine stood within easy reach of his fingers; he could feel her warm breath on his collarbone, setting his nerves on fire. It took every last ounce of willpower for him to keep his eyes locked on hers instead of roaming her exposed body. "Go to your room. Get dressed," he hissed at her through clenched teeth, masking his desire with cold rage. "I will make some herbal tea, and you will drink it. Then we will talk. Understood?"

Christine glowered up at him even as she quaked in terror. "I am no longer your puppet, Monsieur le Fantôme. I will do as I please." Nevertheless, she obeyed him, striding over to the far corner of the cave and disappearing behind the velvet curtain to her bedroom.

Once he was sure that Christine could no longer see him, Erik fell back on the organ bench with a heavy sigh, burying his head in his hands.

**A/N: -blinks a few times, absolutely in shock- I… don't…but…it… aah! ALL FOUR of my favorite phanphic authoresses are reading this story? (You know who you are— I'm the crazy one who reviews every chapter!) I am honored beyond words, and simply must take this opportunity to ask all of you to UPDATE please! Haha. **


	5. Suffering

**A/N: Eek, this must be my fourth rewrite of this chapter. I was so frustrated, I nearly abandoned this story altogether. Fortunately some encouragement from my beta convinced my obstinate muse to cooperate. ;) **

**On that note, a –huge hug- to my friend and beta, Marianne Brandon. Without your help, this story would have died out very quickly. Love you, Em! **

Three months ago, she would have trembled in terror under his searing gaze. Now she shuddered uncontrollably, but not from fear; her lower abdomen was on fire, ripping at her nerves until she was ready to scream in agony. The lair spun nauseatingly around her as she struggled to maintain consciousness. Try as she might, she could not steady her quivering muscles, nor quell the continuous urge to collapse. Dignity was all Christine had left, and she clutched to it desperately as the rest of her body spiraled out of control.

Of course, it didn't help that Erik was being so damned _calm_ about the whole ordeal. More than anything she wanted to find solace in his arms, but it seemed all he could do was mock her. His indifference to the situation made her feel aggravatingly childish, and she began to doubt the wisdom of seeking out her old mentor. Not two minutes in his home, and already he was attempting to make her his obedient little marionette again.

_Not this time,_ she assured herself as he drew closer. Clenching her teeth against the pain, she glared him down, meeting every cynical remark unflinchingly. She was not a child anymore, nor his slave. She was here of her_ own _accord, not on his bidding.

Perhaps that was the most frightening thought of all.

Nevertheless, she was determined to hold her own while in Erik's presence. She did not miss his look of mild surprise at her newfound audacity, nor was she surprised that he immediately rose to the challenge. Unfortunately, a fresh burst of pain gripped her innards just as he issued an order for her to leave the room. She managed to blink back a film of burning tears and spit one final jibe at him before sweeping off to her bedroom, her chin held high.

Only after the curtain swished shut behind her did she collapse against the stone wall, biting her tongue to stifle a tormented cry. She felt as if she had swallowed a rusty nail, and now it was scraping along the walls of her intestines.

After a moment the pain subsided enough for her to raise her head slightly. Her blurred eyes fell upon the elaborate swan bed across the room, and a shuddering sigh escaped her lips.

_Come, Christine, it's only a few steps…_

She squeezed her eyes shut as she took a hesitant step forward, and a few warm tears trickled down her cheeks. Instinct told her to curl into a ball, but she held her torso firmly upright as she stumbled over to the bed. When her knees bumped the carved iron wings she could do nothing but collapse forward onto the velvet sheets, smothering a scream by pressing her face into the mattress. If labor were half this bad, she would have never allowed a man to take her…

She whimpered at the thought, hugging her knees to her chest and burying her face in them. This was self-inflicted— her baby's death was all her fault.

_Oh Raoul, forgive me…_

Her tears flowed steadily now, soaking the soft velvet covers. She paid them no heed, but rocked back and forth, whispering quietly under her breath.

"Hail Mary, full of grace," she sobbed. "The Lord is with thee. B-blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb…" Her voice broke, and she could say no more.

Gradually the pain ebbed away, leaving her with an empty, dull ache. The last few tears trickled slowly down her cheeks, and she sniffled miserably before brushing at the swollen red flesh around her eyes. She sighed as it occurred to her that Erik was still awaiting her return. The last thing she needed was for him to barge in presumptuously and find her a sobbing wreck. He was not a patient man.

Drawing in a deep breath, she gripped the rim of the bed and slowly pulled herself upright. A few strands of chestnut hair were matted to her wet cheeks, and she brushed them aside before rising gingerly to her feet.

Her ankles wobbled unsteadily for a few moments, and she clung to the edge of the bed for balance until her head stopped spinning. Once she was fairly certain that she could cross the room without collapsing, she took a tentative step forward, and then another.

Soft candlelight illuminated the beautiful little bedroom, and as Christine gained confidence in her footing she took a moment to soak in her surroundings.

Everything was exactly the same as the last time she had slept in the ornate swan bed, and she felt strangely comforted by the familiar room. Throughout her life she had hardly known the definition of a "home"… she and her father had been nomads, traveling throughout France and Spain in her early childhood. Gustave Daaé had purchased a cottage by the sea in a little coastal town called Perros-Guirec, but Christine remembered very little of the house… only a few snippets of memory had survived the test of time.

_Those paintings in the attic… father playing the violin… _

But if Christine were to be truly honest with herself, Erik's lair was the only real home she'd ever had. She felt safe there, oddly, isolated from the cruel world above ground. Erik had obviously spent hours preparing a private bedroom for her. The strange assortment of old props flooded her with fond memories of countless rehearsals and performances with the Ballet Corps. Not everything had been stolen from the Opera's vaults, however; a matching cherry wood furniture set lined the far wall, consisting of a wardrobe, divan, vanity, bookshelf, and desk. Erik had provided her a collection of fine literature that would have made any librarian swoon… Homer, Shakespeare, Dante… all of her favorites, and then some. Along with the plush furniture, several fine tapestries and gold-framed oil paintings were hung throughout the room, giving the dank cave a bit of color and cheer. Little nooks and crannies had been draped with crimson velvet as if to make her forget that she was underground. And then there were the roses… vases upon vases of blood red roses, stripped of their thorns and bound with black ribbon. Of course, they were all dead by now, the velvet petals wilted and browned at the tips. She stopped to finger one of the lifeless flowers, and fresh tears sprung to her eyes.

_You did very well, my dear. He is pleased with you._

Christine turned quickly away from the roses to face her wardrobe, tucking the painful memories into the recesses of her mind. The polished cherry wood doors had been hand-carved with wild roses and wide-eyed cherubs, and she eyed them appreciatively before pulling them open. The wardrobe was packed with a vast display of beautiful gowns, ranging from elegant to extravagant. Erik had assured her that each of the garments was tailor-made to fit her perfectly. She had not bothered to ask how exactly he had known her precise measurements; she wasn't sure she wanted to know. With a smile and a shake of her head, she dismissed it as just another of Erik's secrets… they seemed infinite and frustrating at times, but she had learned to live with them over the years.

She finally settled on a simple white dress, embroidered with delicate lace along the bodice and sleeves. It reminded her of the Sunday dress she had worn as a child when accompanying her father to mass. Lost in memories of her beloved father, she ignored the swelling pain in her abdomen and began to rummage through her drawers for a clean corset, chemise and petticoat. Finding each of the undergarments, she laid them out on the divan and tugged her sodden chemise over her head before dropping it on the floor with a wet smack.

The third wave of wrenching pain assaulted her just as she reached for the clean chemise. Within moments she was on her hands and knees, her eyes bulging as she gasped for air. The room spun around her again, and this time she could not quell the urge to retch. Bile rose in her throat, and she choked on the hot acid before spitting it on the floor. Her left cheek met stone, and she remembered nothing more before succumbing to darkness.

**A/N: -winces- Yeah. Remember what I was saying about being evil to poor Christine? **


	6. Guardian

**A/N: -contented sigh- Oh, I'm SO much more comfortable writing Erik! I think (I hope) this chapter is yards better than the last. There's a good hearty slab of angst in this chapter, and a teensy bit of a cliffhanger… -cowers- BUT there's more than just the two of them lazing around the lair, glowering at one another from behind curtains. That's gotta be an improvement, right? **

Erik paced the narrow strip in front of the organ restlessly, his hands clasped at the small of his back. His expression was vacant and cold, save his eyes, which blazed like a caged predator's. Rage boiled just beneath his calm exterior, threatening to burst forth at the first opportunity.

Why? WHY did Fate take such delight in tormenting him?

He was a monster— a terrible, heartless beast. Christine did not love him; she never had, and never would. Her harsh words would be branded on his soul for the rest of his miserable life…

_This haunted face holds no horror for me now; it's in your soul that the true distortion lies! _

The kiss had been a cunning ruse for the sole purpose of freeing her precious vicomte, nothing more. Erik had accepted this. He had granted her freedom, begged her to forget everything. When he had watched the de Chagny boy pole his beloved away, that was the end of it— they had passed the point of no return. He had never expected to see her again.

She did not love him. He would not allow himself to believe it. His shattered heart could not bear another rejection.

But why had she returned, then? Raoul was dead. Did she expect Erik to provide for her… feed and clothe her out of the kindness of his nonexistent heart? Perhaps the bankruptcy of the opera house had pulled the de Chagnys into debt, leaving the financial burden on her shoulders? It was quite plausible, and Erik found himself accepting the conclusion assuredly. Money was of very little importance to him; he had plenty. If it was money Christine wanted, she had only to ask, take as much as she wanted, and leave him once again. As she had so bluntly pointed out, he had not hesitated to use her for his own purposes. He would not deny her the same right.

There were exactly four strides between each set of stairs. Erik's clipped footsteps could almost have served as a metronome, so rhythmic were his movements. He counted 1,936 strides before he lost his patience.

What was _taking_ so damned long? It did not take half an hour to change into clean clothes! If she was going to take his money and go, it was best that she did so quickly, before he did something he would regret. A dark part of him already pondered sinister plans to keep Christine captive, lock her in her room and never release her. He did not want to succumb to it; he wanted her to leave as quickly as possible and return to her life as vicomtess— the life she had chosen.

At least, that was what Erik repeated to himself as he paced back and forth. He felt as if little pieces of lead had settled in the bottom of his heart at the prospect of letting her go again, but he still tried to convince himself that she was better off without him. Love had failed him once, leaving him a pitiful wreck. He dared not put his trust in it again.

Clenching his jaw resolutely, he stepped over to the curtain of her bedroom and rapped on the stone arch. When no response came, he sighed sharply and knocked harder.

"Christine? Are you nearly finished?"

No response. The room was still and silent behind the curtain.

"Christine…" He squeezed his eyes shut, chewing the inside of his lower lip guiltily. She was angry with him, he supposed. He had not intended to offend her, only to mask his own insecurity— she deserved to know that he had not meant it. "I apologize for the way I spoke to you earlier. It was uncalled for. Please, come out."

Silence.

Despite his best efforts, his temper flared. If he was going out of his way to be cordial to her, the least she could do was respond. "I'm not going to ask you again. Come out, or I'm coming in!"

Still she did not answer. With another sigh, he barged quickly past the curtain and stepped into the room.

"Christine, I think—"

The sight before him had Erik groping frantically for something to hold him upright. Christine lay on her stomach in a pool of vomit, entirely naked. For a moment Erik could do nothing but stare in horror, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Oh please no," he prayed to the God he didn't believe in. He approached her as if moving in slow motion, his breath hitching in his lungs. "Christine?" She did not move. Her pale body was so terribly still. Very slowly and carefully, he brushed the chestnut curls from her face and lowered his ear to her parted lips.

She was breathing… labored, shallow gasps that rattled in her chest. Erik doubled over in a burst of relieved sobs. Panic gripped him again, however, when his eyes fell upon the puddle of blood pooling beneath her womanhood.

This was far beyond his medical knowledge. She needed a doctor, and fast.

Pausing only to wrap a blanket around her bare body, he scooped her up into his arms and ran for the Rue Scribe entrance. The jarring motion of his gait did not wake her, which only concerned him more. His horse, César, was tied in a stall hidden partially by crumbled stone, and the black stallion stuck his head out curiously at his master's approaching footsteps.

Erik did not bother to tack up his horse; he didn't have time. Instead he jerked the lead rope over César's head and laid Christine over his bare back before jumping on himself. Once he had one leg planted firmly on either side he propped Christine upright, holding her tightly to him and cradling her limp head against his neck. She whimpered softly, but did not wake. Erik's heart broke at the weak sound, and he planted a soft kiss on her forehead before jamming his heels into César's sides. The stallion gave a piercing whinny of surprise at the insistent spurring and burst into a breakneck gallop, tossing his head excitedly. Erik's grip on Christine only tightened as they raced through the city streets. The rain had stopped, but streams of water still poured from the edge of rooftops, making the cobblestone roads slick and dangerous. Nevertheless, Erik did not slow his galloping horse as they wound through the narrow sidestreets of the inner city. Alley cats and children leapt out of his way, and he stopped only as he passed an open market to ask directions.

"Where is the nearest doctor?" he demanded of an elderly baker's wife, his words choked as he panted heavily.

The woman's eyes bulged as she looked upon his unmasked face, and she crossed herself three times before shrieking, "Lord have mercy!" and ducking into the shop.

Erik made a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl, and dug his heels into the horse's heaving sides once again. He had no time for this.

It was very rare that he ever ventured far beyond the walls of the Opera Populaire, but he could have ridden to Vaugirard blindfolded. Once they'd passed the bustling streets surrounding the Montparnasse train station, he only urged César into a faster gait, whipping the end of the lead rope into his neck until the horse's feet were a blur beneath them.

"Hang on, Christine," he whispered into her small, pale ear. "Please, just hang on…"

They clattered around the corner to Rue Labrouste, and Erik gathered Christine securely in his arms, supporting her neck and knees in the crooks of his elbows. In a single movement he swung his leg to the left side of the horse and leapt to the ground. Brick apartments lined the street, and he took the steps to 6B two at a time. Shifting Christine in his arms, he pounded frantically on the front door. A brief pause ensued before the door opened a crack, and two stunning green eyes peered around the edge.

"Erik?"

He shouldered his way inside without invitation, his eyes ablaze. "She's bleeding, Daroga. Can you help her or not?" His chest rose and fell rapidly as he met his old friend's incredulous gaze.

Nadir eyed Christine briefly before gesturing to a room in the back of the hall. "Take her to the study. I'll do what I can."

Erik did as he was told, brushing past the Persian to cross the hall. He kneed the door open and found the divan quickly in the dark, laying Christine's still body upon it with the tenderness of a parent putting their infant to sleep. His brow furrowed slightly as he studied her unconscious form. Her breathing had grown, if possible, even fainter. Clenching his teeth to fight back tears, he took her cold hand in his own and rubbed it gently. Moments later Nadir slipped through the door, holding a stack of clean towels and an unmarked bottle of clear liquid. He placed them on the floor beside the divan and turned on a gas lamp in the corner of the room before kneeling in front of his patient. For awhile he studied her professionally, opening her lips to peer inside her mouth and checking the pulse in her neck. Finally he acknowledged Erik's presence, turning to look him full in the eye.

"You're not going to like what I'm about to say—" he began.

"Then don't say it," Erik hissed warningly.

Nadir ignored him. "You need to leave the room, Erik. You can't be of any help to me, and your presence is a distraction. If I am to treat this patient, I need your compliance."

"I won't leave her."

The Daroga narrowed his emerald eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "Then I cannot proceed with the rest of the examination."

The two men glared stubbornly at one another for several moments before Erik finally lowered his eyes in defeat. Without looking at Nadir, he said softly, "You will inform me if she wakes…"

"I swear it," Nadir sighed. "Now please. She needs treatment."

Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, Erik nodded. He brushed his fingertips gently along the curve of Christine's jaw as he rose to his feet, and with one final glance at Nadir, stepped back into the hall.

Even pacing could not relieve the restlessness which stiffened every muscle in Erik's body. Fate was an interesting thing indeed… it had thrust him and Christine together several times in the past, only to yank them apart like string from a kitten. Not an hour ago he had been anxious to get her out of his sight as quickly as possible, for fear that remaining with her would break his heart. Now the prospect of losing Christine crushed his lungs and burned his throat, threatening to strangle the life from him.

It was no longer a matter of heartbreak; being with Christine was now a matter of life or death.

**A/N: Whew! That's just about enough Erik angst to sink the Titanic! Hope you guys enjoyed it. And for the record, I **_**love**_** Nadir, and I've never included him in my stories before, so I had to take a stab at it. :)**


	7. Guilt

**A/N: Okay, change in stride here. Christine's unconscious… -mock sigh of disappointment- Oh dear. Might have to write another chapter from Erik's POV. –snaps fingers- DARN!**

**Well, alright. Just to be consistent:**

Ch 7.

She saw darkness, all-consuming but serene. There was no pain, only peace. Occasionally she would catch a snippet of conversation, but the words were little more than distorted, jumbled sounds. And then the darkness would claim her again, wrapping her in its seductive, inviting embrace. This was all Christine saw for the next three hours.

The end.

**-giggles- Naw, I'm not that mean. To those of you who have been complaining about the length, see what I COULD do? Haha, I jest. But let's skip to something a bit more interesting, eh?**

**The REAL chapter 7:**

Every few moments his head would jerk up compulsively to glance at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, only to discover that a mere fifteen seconds had passed since the last time he had checked. His pacing did not falter, however, with the routine glimpses; he used his footsteps to tap out the steady rhythm of a recent composition, his fingers twitching, instinctively moving over a phantom organ. Erik's irritability and restlessness were only amplified by his self-designated restriction from music. Although Christine was unconscious, he was convinced she could hear music in her sleep. Many nights he had soothed her with a gentle lullaby when she would toss and turn in her sleep; nightmares of her father's death had plagued Christine during her first few months at the opera house, and her angel had always been there to chase the demons away. Now he dared not allow himself to sit at the piano in Nadir's living room, knowing full well he could not control his emotions once the first few notes bloomed from his fingertips. If Christine were to hear his tormented music while trapped in the confines of her unconscious mind, he feared he would become the _source_ of her nightmares, not the remedy.

It seemed like hours before the door to the study clicked, but it had hardly been twenty minutes. Erik jumped involuntarily at the sound, his head whipping around eagerly.

"How is she?" he asked immediately, moving to stand within an arm's length of Nadir should the need arise to strangle him. The Persian would not meet his gaze for several moments, and when he finally did, his emerald eyes were dulled with pain.

"Sleeping soundly, just as you left her," Nadir admitted elusively. Erik's temper sprang like a coiled snake; he gripped his old friend by the shoulders, his fingers digging into Nadir's flesh.

"Damn you, Daroga! You know what I mean!" he roared, giving the Persian a jarring shake. "What's _wrong_ with her?" Despite himself, his voice wavered dangerously, threatening to break.

Nadir's eyes hardened as he stared into Erik's, and his jaw tightened slightly. "If you'll kindly release me, I will prepare some tea and bring it to the living room. Then we will discuss her condition." The déjà vu between Nadir's directions and the command he had given Christine a few hours ago momentarily dumbfounded Erik, and he could do nothing but nod numbly and release his friend. Nadir studied him intently for a few more seconds before sweeping off gracefully to the kitchen as if nothing had happened.

Erik trembled violently, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He was torn in two— a part of him ached to return to Christine's side, to caress her hair and hold her cold body against him. But curiosity got the better of him; he _needed_ to know what was ailing his beloved. Passing his hand over his face, he sighed shakily and stepped past the door to the study.

Nadir's living room was very similar to his own in its décor, but he noted irritably that it was a great deal tidier. An ornate Persian rug covered most of the hardwood floor, but aside from that solitary decoration, the room was surprisingly European. Two armchairs were nestled into the corners surrounding the fireplace, and a plush divan ran the length of an entire wall. A glass coffee table sat just in front of the divan, holding only a cigar case and a worn copy of Shakespeare's _Othello_. And then, of course, there was the piano…

Erik looked resolutely away from the beckoning ivory keys, clenching his hands into fists. He perched on the very edge of the divan, eyeing the cigar case hungrily. Fortunately he only had to wait a few endless minutes before Nadir returned, carrying a tray laden with tea and biscuits. He set it gently on the coffee table before Erik, and proceeded to pour tea with a slow, steady hand. Instead of calming Erik's bristling nerves, however, the stalling movements only prodded his temper.

"You try my patience, Daroga," he hissed.

Nadir gave him a startled look, as if seeing him for the first time. "Then I am doing you a favor, am I not? They say patience is a virtue."

Erik was on his feet in a split second, his eyes flashing venom. The Persian was quicker, reaching out to snatch his wrist as he reached for the Punjab lasso. He laughed emptily, shaking his head. "You underestimate me, Erik. Sit down. _Think._ If you kill me now, what will become of the girl?"

In reality, Erik _hadn't_ been thinking. By this point, his capacity to reason had been drowned out by rage— at Fate, Christine, the restrictions of mankind, and himself. The Daroga was right, of course, but he would not openly admit it. Instead he wrenched his hand from Nadir's grasp, bringing his face within centimeters of the Persian's.

"Tell me what's wrong with her," he demanded again, his eyes burning.

Nadir's eyes softened slightly, the amused expression disappearing from his face. "I shall tell you all I know, Erik. But please, have a seat." He gestured to the divan, and Erik had no choice but to comply. Nadir nodded his approval before settling in the armchair across the room, folding his hands in his lap.

There was a brief silence as the Persian pondered how best to present his findings to Erik. Then, quite suddenly, realization dawned on his face, and he looked up at his old friend with his head tilted slightly to one side. "You let her go." A brief, puzzled silence ensued before he elaborated, "Christine Daaé… she married the Vicomte. I saw the announcement in the paper. And then, not two weeks later, in the obituaries…" His eyes widened slightly. "She returned to you?" Erik studied his knees intently, refusing to meet his gaze. Nadir swallowed and licked his lips before continuing, very softly, "Was it your child, Erik?"

Erik's head shot up like lightning, his eyes narrowed to slits. "What did you say?"

Nadir leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and pressing his palms together. His eyes danced along the intricate pattern of the Persian rug, but Erik could sense that his mind was elsewhere. Finally, he responded, "I don't believe I've ever spoken to you of my mother."

Erik's patience finally snapped, and he rose to his feet again. "Goddamn it, Daroga! If you can't answer one single question—"

The Persian's eyes glittered like jade fire. "Sit—down!" he commanded, his voice resonating with power without increasing in volume. "I am explaining."

"No! You're describing your bloody _childhood_ to me while Christine—"

Rubbing his eyes in frustration, Nadir interrupted swiftly, "My mother was the midwife for our tribe in Persia." Erik slowly sank back onto the divan, quelling his temper for the moment. "She taught me everything she knew. I assisted in bringing countless children into the world…" Nadir lowered his eyes as they brimmed with pain. "Alive and dead."

Erik could do nothing but stare at his friend blankly, unwilling to register the connection between the midwife in Persia and his beloved in the next room. "What does any of this have to do with Christine?" His voice no longer retained any of its former anger, but was tight and thick with dreaded anticipation.

Nadir swallowed, refusing to meet Erik's imploring gaze. "From what I can tell, she very recently miscarried a child."

The air slammed from Erik's lungs as if he had run into a brick wall. His heart picked up pace until it was throbbing against his ribcage. He could not breathe, nor think, as the stunning revelation sank in. The Daroga continued to speak to him softly, explaining the situation, but his words became jumbled in Erik's mind.

Only one coherent thought could pierce the haze of his incredulity. _Raoul's child…_ Countless haunting images crashed upon him, eating at his soul until he wanted to scream. The wedding night… his lips on hers, traveling to her pale neck and down further still… Christine's gasps and sighs of pleasure at the gentle probing of the boy's tongue… matching smiles of embarrassment as clothes pooled at their feet, before desire once again glittered in their eyes… a white canopy bed in the corner of the room… sweat-slicked limbs entwined with Egyptian cotton…

He shook his head vehemently to rid himself of the loathed images. His chest heaved with furious gasps for air, his eyes dripping with poison. The urge to kill had never gripped his soul with such a firm, hot hand. _A child… Raoul's child._ Damn heaven and hell, earth and sky… He wanted the satisfaction of spilling the Vicomte's blood! He would have devoted the rest of his life to hunting and killing the boy for spilling his foul seed within Christine's perfect form. Directly or not, he was the reason she now lay unconscious in a stranger's home. Raoul could have died a thousand gruesome deaths by Erik's skilled hand, and it would not have been a sufficient punishment.

He did not even recognize the firm pressure on his shoulder until Nadir barked his name. He looked up into the Persian's pained eyes, his own brimming with tears.

"Is she in pain?" he asked brokenly.

Nadir pressed his lips together and nodded somberly. "When she wakes, she will be. She is very thin, Erik, and very pale. I do not believe she has eaten in quite awhile." He sighed, releasing Erik's shoulder. "I will prepare some _eshkeneh_. It would do us all some good to have hot soup in our bellies." He paused, giving Erik a quick once-over. "She will not wake for quite some time. I administered a sedative which should allow her to sleep peacefully for another hour or so. And you, my friend, need to clean up." He gestured to a washroom on the opposite side of the main hall, and then to a small laundry room beside the study. "The tub and shaving supplies are in there, and I have hot water on the furnace. Take as much as you require. Supper will be ready at eight." And with a polite dip of his head, he strode out of the room.

Erik alternated between being irritated at Nadir's honesty, and appreciating it. Eventually he sighed, rose to his feet, and traipsed into the main hall. He knew Nadir would be frustrated with him for doing so, but he pulled the door to the study open with a soft click and stepped silently inside. The Persian had covered Christine with a thick down comforter, he noted gratefully. Moonlight filtered through the shuttered window, illuminating her pale face with an eerie blue tint. Her shallow breathing was the only thing that assured Erik that she was indeed alive.

He sighed heavily, falling to his knees beside her. Christine's long, slender fingers peeked out from the edge of the blanket, and he could not resist enveloping them in his.

He did not even register the first few tears that trickled down his cheeks. "Oh, Christine," he whispered, kissing the soft, smooth flesh of her hand. "Why didn't you tell me?" His heart gave a painful wrench— he knew damn well why not. He had not allowed her a moment to speak before attacking her with bitter sarcasm and doubt. It was his fault… this was all his fault.

It had not been money Christine was after… she needed medical aid. But he had been so absorbed in his own damn self that he had not paused to consider the fact that she might be in need of immediate assistance…

_Fool! Coward and fool!_

He pressed his forehead to the back of her hand as sobs clutched his lungs. "Forgive me… please forgive me…"

From the kitchen, he heard the clanking of pots and Nadir's inquisitive call. "Erik? Did you find everything you need?"

He brushed away his tears angrily and flashed Christine one last apologetic glance before climbing to his feet and responding in the affirmative. Perhaps Nadir was right, as usual… perhaps a hot bath would help to cleanse the guilt caked around his heart.

**A/N: Ahh, angsty Erik. Nothing quite like it, is there? **


	8. Chaos

**A/N: Aaand we're back to Christine-dom. This should be a very interesting chapter, to say the least…**

Christine's first thought upon waking was, surprisingly, not a recognition of pain. The searing ache had dissolved from her lower abdomen, at least while she was laying still. Her eyes were still lightly closed as she tried to get a grasp on her surroundings.

Was she still in bed at her husband's house? She squeezed her eyelids together tightly, hoping and praying that it was so. Perhaps it had all been a dream… a vivid, strikingly clear dream. She most certainly wasn't at Erik's house; her head did not rest on a stone floor, nor the crushed velvet of the swan bed. In fact, maybe, just maybe, she had never gone there in the first place. Perhaps Raoul was still alive, sleeping soundly beside her, and the baby was still nestled comfortably in her womb…

A gentle swipe of terrycloth in a most private area suddenly jolted her fully awake, and she pressed her knees together instinctively, her eyes flying open. A strange man crouched between her legs, with skin the color of coffee and cream, and eyes that glittered like polished emeralds.

She screamed at the top of her lungs, pulling the blanket draped over her naked body up to her chin. The man's eyes bulged, and in a flash he had sprung to his feet and bolted the lock to the only available exit. Christine's heart hammered in her chest while her mind swam dizzily. Had he drugged her as well? It certainly felt as if some sort of narcotic was coursing through her system, rendering her impotent.

"Who are you?" she demanded, curling her legs beneath her hips protectively.

The stranger opened his mouth to reply, but before a single sound could escape his lips, a familiar voice rang out from somewhere beyond the door.

"Christine?"

Tears flooded her eyes immediately. "Erik!" she cried. "Erik, help me!"

The dark-skinned man stepped closer, and Christine recoiled, her eyes wide in fear. "Please, Madame, I'm not going to harm you—"

The door handle jiggled uselessly before Erik's fist pounded on the door. "Damn you, Daroga— you promised me!" he roared.

"She's delusional," the dark-skinned man objected, eyeing Christine skeptically. She hugged the blanket tighter around herself, hot tears escaping down her cheeks. "Your presence will only upset her further."

"Erik, please!" she sobbed frantically, oblivious to the stranger's words.

"DAROGA, I SWEAR, I WILL BREAK DOWN THIS DOOR WITH MY BARE HANDS!" Erik beat his fists against the frame. "YOU KNOW I CAN!"

"Allah, Erik, will you _calm down_?" the dark man insisted, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. "You are not helping the situation! Just let me _explain_ to her—"

A bit of the haze began to clear from Christine's head, but the sharp pain returned with her mounting frenzy. She bent forward with a moan of pain and another desperate call for Erik, and to her horror the stranger bent over her. She did not have the strength to fight him off, and allowed him to lay her on her back.

"Erik… Erik, please!" She choked on her own tears, her chest trembling weakly with broken sobs. "Don't let him hurt me!"

The dark skinned man sighed, shaking his head. "Please, Madame, you must calm down. I do not want to administer another sedative, but if you insist upon carrying on like this…"

It seemed that Erik had abandoned the hope of knocking down the door by force; Christine could hear the distinct tapping of metal as he attempted to unhook the copper hinges. He muttered softly, and she could just make out his murmured curses.

"The moment I get in there I'm going to ring his neck… have his damned blue blood all over my hands…"

She moaned softly, her teeth beginning to chatter. It was freezing in here, even with the blanket, and she wanted nothing more than to collapse into the warmth of Erik's arms. However, she didn't know if she could stomach watching him murder a man with his own hands. He seemed to know this strange foreigner, and she eyed him warily as he retrieved a clear bottle of liquid from the desk across the room.

He saw her concerned gaze and dipped his head apologetically. "Trust me, Madame. My medical skills are limited, but I know a great deal about your particular circumstance." He touched her forehead gently— his fingertips were cool against the flushed skin. Her eyes darted over to the door; Erik had the top hinge unhooked already. "Don't mind him. He has the patience of a hungry leopard. I will allow him to enter when you are calm. You are very weak, Madame; your body cannot handle this amount of strain." She met his gaze hesitantly. "Do you think you can compose yourself, Christine, or shall I administer another sedative?"

Somehow the use of her name seemed to strike a chord within her. Taking a deep breath, she bit her lower lip and nodded submissively. "I— I can calm down." She raised her eyes apologetically to meet his. "I did not realize you were a doctor."

He smiled gently and shook his head. "I hardly qualify as such, I'm afraid," he said, taking a cup of herbal tea from the end table beside her head and offering it to her. "Drink this. It will help ease the pain." She studied the contents of the cup carefully before doing as she was told. The hot tea felt wonderful against her raw, sore throat, but she choked and sputtered a bit as she swallowed it down. The man's emerald eyes narrowed in concern. "Careful, Madame… no need to rush. I have more tea in the kettle, and hot soup on the stove. You should not eat solid foods for a few days; your stomach has been empty for so long, it can no longer process it. I shall give Erik more detailed instructions once he's finished breaking through the door." His eyes glinted in amusement as he glanced meaningfully over at the door. Right on cue, Erik pulled out the last hinge and kicked the thin wooden frame down. His chest heaved from the effort, and his eyes blazed dangerously as he stormed into the room.

The dark man held his hands up in front of him, one eyebrow arched. "Don't even think about it, Erik. It is not worth your effort to kill me, especially in front of a young lady."

Christine chose this moment to speak up, breaking the thick tension with her soft, imploring voice. "Erik…"

He turned to face her, his fury visibly dissolving in seconds. She stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes, and his own softened as he fell to his knees beside her. He cupped her cheek with his hand, and she closed her eyes at his reassuring touch.

"Are you alright?"

She swallowed bravely and nodded. "I was startled, that's all."

"Understandably so," the other man added honestly. "In her position, any woman would have reacted in such a manner. My apologies, Madame." He bowed his head. "I did not expect you to wake for quite awhile."

She bit her lip, edging a bit closer to Erik. "What were you doing?"

The man's eyes flickered to Erik hesitantly. "You… are bleeding excessively, Madame. I was trying to prevent infection."

Her heart stopped cold, her face draining of its color. She dared not meet Erik's gaze. Something told her that this man had already explained her condition to him… She chomped down on her tongue to hold back an unladylike curse. This was not how she wanted him to find out— in fact, she had secretly hoped that he would never discover her shameful secret.

"Oh," was her meek response. She winced inwardly as Erik's fingertip curled around her chin, lifting her face to his. His eyes were filled with a deep, heartfelt pain and remorse, so very different from the feeble apology he had offered for Raoul's death. He opened and closed his mouth twice, but words seemed to fail him. Christine tried to tell him with her eyes that they weren't necessary. Pity would only make her cry, and she was sick and tired of crying. Pasting on a brave smile, she returned her gaze to the stranger. "Thank you for tending to me, Monsieur."

Erik followed her gaze and sighed heavily. "I suppose this is when I'm expected to make introductions." He waved his hand as if performing the most tedious task in the world. "Christine Daa-" He gritted his teeth, his ears burning in humiliation, "… de Chagny, this is Nadir Khan."

Christine blushed prettily as Nadir took her hand and kissed it, her previous terror dissolved in the genteel instincts that had been drilled into her since childhood. "A pleasure, Monsieur Khan."

"You are just as beautiful as Erik described you, Madame," he offered, his eyes crinkling in a smile. "It is an honor to finally meet you in person."

She returned the smile weakly and fought the urge to lie back on the divan. Her stomach had churned painfully as it processed the tea, and now ached and growled for something more to sate it. Both men seemed to hear her stomach's grumbling protests, for they rose to their feet at the same moment. She blushed, humiliated by her helplessness. She felt like an infant— needing to be fed liquids and have her diaper changed at regular intervals.

Trying to resolve the futile, unspoken argument before one of the men wound up dead, she reached out and entwined her fingers with Erik's. He glowered at Nadir, his eyes flashing dangerously before he settled back at Christine's side.

Nadir nodded gratefully to her. "I shall fetch the two of you some soup. I'm sure you have much to discuss." And with a graceful bow, he hopped over the broken door and out of sight.

Christine found herself fiddling absently with Erik's hand, skirting her fingers along the pale flesh. Only once before had she seen him without his signature leather gloves— during _Don Juan Triumphant_, when those same hands had so gently caressed the sensitive skin of her neck and collarbone. A blush crept up her neck to burn her cheeks at the memory…

Her eyes snapped up to meet his, and her blush only deepened when she noticed that he had been staring at her intensely. She trembled slightly as he reached his free hand up to stroke her cheek. There was no trace of the fuming murderer that had stood before her just moments ago— it frightened her that he could transform so quickly from a cold-blooded killer to a tender, doting friend.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through this, Christine," he said softly, his voice just above a whisper. "Nadir is an old… _acquaintance_ from Persia. When I saw…" Now it was his turn to flush a deep shade of crimson. "When I saw that you were bleeding, I tried to take you to a doctor, but this damned _face_—" He yanked his hand away from her cheek to gesture to the malformed side of his head. "Frightened away any who could help." He sighed deeply, wrapping both hands around her smaller one. "So I brought you here. Nadir is certainly no medical expert. I taught him nearly everything he knows about common ailments and herbal remedies. But…" His blush only deepened. "He was married— he knows the body of a woman as I do not. It was pure luck that his mother was a midwife. Perhaps Fate is on our side for once."

Christine smiled softly, squeezing his forearm with her free hand. "Thank you, Erik." She lowered her eyes sadly as revelation dawned upon her. She had nearly died— weeks without food, and excessive bleeding… it was a wonder she had lasted as long as she did. "You saved my life."

Before she knew it, Erik's arms were wrapped tightly around her, one hand resting at the small of her back while the other cradled her head. She closed her eyes, burying her face in his firm chest. He smelled wonderful… a spicy, tangy, exotic smell that intoxicated her senses. Wrapped in the warm blanket and Erik's strong arms, she nearly found herself dozing off. She had not been so comfortable since…

_Raoul._

The single word clutched her brain and sent a spear of guilt through her heart. A shiver shook her from the base of her spine, and she pulled harshly out of Erik's arms, her eyes wide.

"Christine? Are you alright?" He asked, a concerned frown furrowing his brow.

Fortunately, Nadir stepped through the door at that very minute, carrying a tray with two large soup bowls. Christine's stomach gave a loud, insistent growl at the delicious aromas streaming through the room. She shifted around so she sat cross-legged on the divan, gratefully accepting the tray from Nadir.

"Thank you," she said, handing a bowl and spoon to Erik without meeting his gaze.

"I'm not hungry," Erik insisted. She winced; the cold nonchalance had returned to his voice.

_What have I done?_

Nadir narrowed his eyes. "I spent a great deal of time preparing that soup, Erik. I should be offended if you refused my hospitality. Where are your manners? Eat it and be grateful."

Christine stared at him, her mouth falling open in shock. Was this man _insane_? Suicidal? No one dared to speak to Erik in such a manner unless they wished to die. Her jaw only dropped further when Erik grudgingly complied.

_Did I hit my head when I fell? Certainly I'm imagining things…_

Nadir's calm voice snapped her back to reality. "Please eat, Christine. You must keep up your strength." She closed her mouth obediently and nodded, bringing a spoonful of the brown liquid to her lips.

Perhaps it was extreme hunger, but at the moment Christine was sure she had never tasted anything so heavenly in her life. Her taste buds danced at the scrumptious combination of foreign spices and sweet onion. Ingrained manners were the only thing that kept her from tipping the bowl up and gulping the soup down. She ate quickly despite Nadir's previous instructions, and by the time the bowl was half-empty she felt sick to her stomach again. She moaned, leaning back on the divan as Nadir took the tray with a knowing look.

"We should allow you to rest for a while before Erik takes you home," he said softly, taking Erik's bowl and setting it on the tray.

Both Erik and Christine looked at him with puzzled expressions.

"We are no longer welcome here?" Erik asked, surprise evident in his tone.

Nadir sighed. "You know you are always welcome in my home Erik, though Allah alone knows why I am so patient with your temperamental outbursts." He glanced at Christine. "But I believe she would be more comfortable in your home, as would you. The instructions for her care are simple. She needs to stay in bed for two weeks, possibly three. She should only have liquids for the next four to five days, after which time she may eat soft foods, such as applesauce. No dairy or meat for at least two weeks. Any herbal remedies should be given to her in tea. Her bleeding will continue for another few days, as will the pain— you'll need to change her bed sheets daily. Hot baths may help ease the cramping."

Erik and Christine each nodded their understanding. Nadir gestured for Erik to follow him. "But for now, she needs rest. You may leave when she wakes." Erik rose obediently and stepped out the door without another glance at her. Nadir watched him leave, then turned to face Christine with an understanding look. "Try to sleep, Madame. You needn't worry about the two of us. We'll be in the next room if you need anything."

She nodded, and gently hugged her knees to her chest beneath the blanket. No longer afraid of waking up to find a stranger between her legs, she closed her eyes and sighed. With a full belly and utter confidence in the men watching over her, she allowed darkness to press in from the corners of her mind, and within moments she was asleep.

**A/N: -peers in- So, what did you think? This chapter was very Shakespearian… I bounced from hysteria to angst to comedy to romance within seconds, haha. Hope it wasn't too dizzying.**


	9. Counsel

**A/N: -sniffle - I'm afraid this is the last we'll see of Nadir for a very long time. :( Enjoy him while he lasts!**

**Oh, and a shout out to my cousin who is my inspiration, and my beta who does all the dirty work and polishes this story up!**

"You should have hanged for that," Erik grumbled as soon as they were out of Christine's earshot. He sighed heavily, collapsing onto the divan and running a hand over his eyes.

Nadir raised an eyebrow, settling much more delicately in his armchair. "Did I, or did I not, just secure an extended amount of time between the two of you?" Erik did not respond, and Nadir nodded curtly. "That's what I thought."

A brief silence ensued before Erik said quietly, "She doesn't want me."

"Don't be ridiculous. Did you hear her crying out for you?"

Erik shook his head. "Only because her _husband_ wasn't here."

The Persian paused, leaning back in his chair and pursing his lips. "I see."

"No, you don't _see_!" Erik cried, shooting upright. "How could you possibly _see_? You have no idea what we've gone through, Daroga, _no idea_!"

"Shh!" insisted Nadir, pointing meaningfully to the hall. "You'll wake her." Then, more calmly, he added, "I do not pretend to understand your pain, Erik. I never have. But her husband is dead. She returned to _you_. Months ago, you insisted that this was all you ever wanted. Can you not be satisfied?"

Erik seemed to deflate a bit as he lay back on the couch. "I expect too much of her," he suggested miserably.

"Indeed. Be content, Erik! You will have her all to yourself for the next few weeks. From what you've told me, and the scene I just witnessed, I truly believe this child was in love with you at one point. If you can learn to control your _temper_, perhaps you can reclaim what you've lost."

Erik paused to muse for a moment before asking meekly, "How?"

Nadir shrugged. "How did you do it last time?"

"By pretending to be an Angel sent by her deceased father?" Erik laughed bitterly. "Forgive me, Daroga, but I hardly—"

"Impossible man! Think!" He eyed Erik exasperatedly. "What drew Christine to you time and again, when all else failed?"

"… My music."

"Precisely."

Erik shook his head, eyeing the piano absently. "I can't."

"Why ever not?"

He pressed his lips together, his fingers itching to glide across the smooth ivory keys. "I just can't. Not while she's here."

A tiny smile played at the corners of Nadir's mouth. "Nonsense." He rose gracefully to his feet and crossed the room, sitting down on the piano bench. Careful not to make eye contact with his guest, he began to play a novice tune. "How does that one go again, Erik?"

A muscle in Erik's jaw twitched involuntarily. Balling his hands into fists, he hissed through clenched teeth. "Not going to work."

Nadir chuckled knowingly, his fingers blundering on the keys. "I'm afraid I'm making quite a mess of this lovely composition, Erik. A shame, really, when a much more accomplished musician could easily correct me…"

Erik sat perfectly straight, clenching his jaw until it cramped. His leg began to fidget as goose bumps shot up his arms. A mounting pressure gathered in the core of his being, pushing out on his lungs until he couldn't stand it any more. With a small cry, he leapt to his feet and promptly shoved Nadir out of the way, his fingers moving deftly across the keys, never faltering in their perfection. He closed his eyes, sinking down onto the bench as music once again flooded his soul, and his entire being seemed to breathe a tremendous sigh of relief. Halfway through the aria, however, he suddenly jerked away as if he'd been burned, his fingers hitting a sharp chord as he knocked the bench onto its side. He shook his head vehemently, running his hands through his matted hair in frustration as he turned away from both the piano and Nadir's inquisitive stare.

"No. I can't."

"Very well." Nadir sighed, picking up the bench and setting it back in place. "I apologize. I should not have pushed you."

Erik did not respond. His ears were still ringing with the last chord, beckoning him to come back and play it correctly. They both stood, the air between them thick with tension, until the deafening silence was broken by a small whimper. Their heads looked up at the same moment to discover Christine standing in the hallway just outside the living room, clutching the blanket around her. Erik rushed forward to wrap an arm supportively around her waist, his brow furrowing in concern.

"You should not be on your feet," he said severely, scooping her into his arms in one fluid movement. Christine made a small noise of protest, clutching to his neck for balance.

"Really, Erik, I'm fine!" she objected, glancing at the Persian for help. Nadir merely shook his head, taking a step forward.

"He's right. You are far too weak for such exertions, Madame."

Erik rounded to face Nadir. "I believe now is as good a time as any for us to take our leave."

Nadir returned the nod, reaching in his pocket for a small purse of coins. "Please allow me to hire you a carriage…"

"It's not necessary," Erik insisted, taking a pointed step into the hall. "César is more than capable of carrying the two of us. But if you could get the front door for me, I'd be much obliged."

Christine pressed her hand lightly to his chest in a gesture to wait, and turned her head to the Persian with a warm smile.

"I don't know how to thank you, Monsieur Khan…"

"Please, call me Nadir," he suggested amiably, taking her small, pale hand and kissing it. "And it was nothing, Madame la Vicomtess. I was glad to be of service." Erik bristled at the title, his eyes narrowing. Nadir met his gaze and smiled knowingly. "Take good care of my patient, Erik. I'm trusting her to your most capable hands."

He bit back a retort that it was not Nadir's place to trust Christine's care to anyone, and instead dipped his head in a curt nod. The Persian opened the door and spread his arm out. Erik could have sworn he saw one of the Persian's sparkling emerald eyes wink at Christine, but the movement was so quick he could not be sure. Keeping his own face locked into a stony, grim expression, he stepped over the threshold as Christine's arms snaked around his neck for balance. The street outside was thick with fog, and the canopy of gray storm clouds overhead promised more rain. A few horses clopped past, drawing the milkman's buggy, but César was nowhere in sight. Christine frowned slightly and looked up at him, opening her mouth as if to speak, but Erik suddenly whistled loudly, the sound reverberating off of the slick cobblestones.

A brief silence ensued before the oncoming clattering of horse hooves broke the still morning air. Giving a small nod, Erik tightened his grip on Christine and descended the steps to wait at the curb. Within moments the black stallion broke through the fog and came to a halt in front of his master.

"Good boy," Erik murmured, grabbing the lead rope between two fingers as he hoisted Christine onto César's back. She did her best to assist him, clutching to the horse's coarse black mane and scooting her hips forward to make room for him. In a single graceful leap he swung one leg over the horse's back. He reached around Christine's waist to grab the lead rope, wincing as she grabbed on tightly to his arms. He would not soon forget their embrace in the study, nor the expression on her face as she had jerked away. What a _fool_ he had been to make such a brash move… never mind that she had willingly nestled into his arms for several blissful moments before remembering herself!

They rode in awkward silence through the murky streets, sticking to the side roads as they made their way back toward the Opera Populaire at a much steadier, slower gait than they had come. Erik pointedly ignored the gaping stares of passersby, but he noticed with a slight twinge of aggravation that Christine did not fare similarly. She ducked her head from their contemptuous gazes, her eyes trained on César's neck. He stifled a sigh; he had endured the world's scorn for so long now that it no longer bothered him… much. It grated him that Christine cared so much about what others thought of her. He perceived her as perfect. What did it matter what these superficial imbeciles thought? Despite his irritation, he respected Christine's embarrassment. He did not need to cause her more pain; he clicked at César, urging him into a canter and breezing quickly past the onlookers. They reached the Rue Scribe entrance in the better portion of twenty minutes, and as they trotted into the familiar catacombs he could feel Christine's tense muscles relax a bit.

Neither of them spoke until César came to a halt in his stall, lowering his head to munch on his supper. Erik slid down easily and reached up to gather Christine in his arms without meeting her gaze. He could feel her eyes on his bare right cheek, and fought hard to keep the uncertainty and shame from his cool, calm expression. It was as if she were looking right into his soul; he had never felt so vulnerable.

"Perhaps you would care for a hot bath." It was not a suggestion, but a subtle command. He had not missed the growing red stain on the white blanket wrapped around her. He remembered Nadir's comment on the ability of warm water to soothe Christine's pain, and was unsurprised when she nodded her consent. "I have some errands to run back in the marketplace. I will draw and heat the bath for you, but do not try to rise on your own. It would be most unfortunate if you were to collapse again while I am unable to assist you."

She whimpered softly, her face twisting in pain as she shifted her weight in a fruitless attempt to find a comfortable position in Erik's arms. His features softened for a fleeting moment before freezing back into a look of distinct nonchalance. They continued on in silence again, reaching Erik's lair in a matter of minutes. All but a few candles had worn down or been snuffed out by the occasional draft, but his eyes were well adjusted to the dark. He lay Christine down on the swan bed with instructions to stay put. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she curled into a ball, fighting tears of pain. Biting the inside of his lip, he lit two candelabra and blew out the match before stepping quickly out of the room without a backward glance.

He heaved a sigh as he began to draw water from the little pool of filtered water he kept specifically for drinking and bathing purposes. He couldn't decide whether to curse or commend Nadir for this new living situation. It wasn't that he minded the work, or the company for that matter… but stifling his emotions under a mask of indifference had begun to take its toll on him, not to mention his self-assigned restriction from music. He didn't know how long he could keep up the façade, and couldn't bear to think of the consequences if he failed.

Lost in thought, he quickly lit a fire in his small black stove and hung a large iron pot of the filtered water over it. Without even registering the movement, he began to pace slowly, one hand wrapped across his chest as the other stroked the smooth flesh of his lower chin. Minutes went by unmarked, save the gentle tapping of his shoes on the stone floor. Finally he snapped from his reverie, looking up to find the water very near to boiling. He grabbed the handle and quickly lifted it from the stove, carrying it to the bathroom and dumping the contents into his wide, luxurious porcelain bathtub perched on gold-painted, metal lion's paws. He stepped back into the main room and drew another pot-full of cold water, and poured it in with the hot. He stuck his hand into the tub experimentally, swirling his fingers through the water to test the temperature. Nodding to himself, he slipped quietly through the curtain to Christine's room and approached her bed.

She had dozed off, a few stray curls falling across her face. Assuring himself that she could not see the gesture, he lovingly brushed them aside and brought a single lock to his nose, breathing in her sweet scent. After all these years, she still smelled of roses. Smiling at the thought, he climbed to his feet and crossed the room. His smile faded as he caught sight of the vases of dead roses. He fingered one of the dead flowers sadly, and brought his nose down to smell it. Fortunately, it still retained its intoxicating scent. He plucked a few flowers from the glass jars and returned to the bathroom, staring down into the tub. Slowly and carefully, he crumpled the dead blooms and watched as the petals fell to the surface, twirling about atop the water. Unfortunately, the rose petals would have to suffice for now; he would have to purchase soap while in town.

He returned to Christine's room one last time, and placed a hand on her shoulder. He gently shook her arm, and she woke.

"Come," he said simply. She blinked sleepily and nodded, reaching her arms up to wrap around his neck. He carried her to the bathroom and hesitated. A blush crept to his cheeks, to his horror, and he could not fight it down. "Do you- do you need help?" Christine's own face flushed a deep pink as she shook her head.

"No, it's alright. I can manage."

They avoided one another's gaze as Erik set her down. He hesitated, pressing his lips together, before clearing his throat. "I'll be gone for about half an hour. Is there anything in particular you need?"

She shook her head, pulling the blanket a little higher self-consciously. "No, I don't believe so."

"Very well." They stood in uncomfortable silence for another moment before he cleared his throat again, gave a small, terse bow, and swept out of the room.

**A/N: I love my reviewers! –blows kisses- You guys are AWESOME! Seriously, the feedback means the world to me; you're too kind. Thank you so much!**


	10. Nuisance

**A/N: Fluff ahoy! About damned time, right?**

Christine waited until Erik's footsteps faded into silence before dropping the bloodstained blanket at her feet. She stretched her aching spine and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, shaking her head to rid herself of the haunting images left over from her brief nightmare. Raoul had waited on the other side of consciousness, his honest blue eyes swimming with tears.

"_Little Lotte, you betrayed me," he whispered brokenly._

"_No!" she insisted, flinging herself into his arms. "Never!" Despite her words, the Punjab lasso whipped out from the darkness, and Erik stepped out from behind a mirror, pulling the rope tighter and tighter around her husband's neck. His green eyes blazed as he slowly drained the life from Raoul. Christine held tight to her husband, pleading with him to forgive her. _

_He reached up a hand to touch her chin as he took his last strangled breaths before falling limply at Erik's feet. The victor took a step forward and grabbed Christine around the waist, his eyes glinting in triumph._

"_Mine," he snarled savagely. "You are MINE."_

She had nearly screamed when she woke a moment later to find Erik huddled over her. But in the flickering candlelight his eyes had been kind, and seeking solace in his arms, she had eagerly allowed him to lift her from the bed. Now, alone in the bathroom, the memory of Raoul's tormented eyes haunted her soul.

With a shaky sigh, she grabbed the rim of the porcelain bathtub and stepped inside. The water was scalding compared to the frigid air of Erik's underground home, and it took her a moment to adjust. She lowered herself slowly, gasping a bit as the water hit her stomach and chest. The skin of her legs had flushed to light pink, and she rubbed her calves absently as if it would return them to their normal color. Little curls of steam drifted upward from the surface of the water, carrying with them the intoxicating, familiar scent of roses. She played with a few of the petals scattered in the water as she lay back, smiling softly at the gesture. Erik had always gone out of his way to pamper her.

_But I've never appreciated it until now,_ her mind finished. She winced, trying to free herself from memories of both the men in her dream. The task quickly proved impossible, however. With a sigh, she plugged her nose and submerged her head completely, as if the air itself plagued her mind.

_What am I doing here? _She wondered to herself, enjoying the sensation of being completely weightless when above-water her head felt like it was weighted down with little pieces of lead. _I should be at home, with maids tending to my every whim. I'd be on my feet just as quickly as if Erik tended me, and I wouldn't cause him any trouble. _She resurfaced when her lungs began to burn, blowing out through her mouth and creating little ripples in the water, sending the rose petals dancing across the surface. She watched them, fascinated, until they grew still again, then she tilted her head back against the tub, closing her eyes. Nadir had been quite right; the cramping had eased significantly, and the steam radiating from the water also soothed the slight cough she'd developed over the past few days. She had not felt so healthy and rejuvenated in weeks.

Minutes slipped by as she relaxed, her eyes lightly closed, trailing her fingers through the water. When it occurred to her that Erik would return at any moment, her eyes suddenly snapped open, and she glanced feverishly into the main room. The rest of the lair was quiet, but that meant nothing; Erik moved like a panther, and often announced his presence in a most disconcerting manner. She shuddered, placing a hand self-consciously across her chest and curling her knees up to her stomach. She didn't know if she could tolerate being carried to bed, completely naked, by Erik. Raoul's watchful eyes still lingered beneath the surface of her mind. Squeezing her own shut, she reluctantly pushed herself forward and climbed from the comfort of the tub to stand in the frigid air. She looked around the bathroom fruitlessly for any sign of a towel, little streams of water cascading from her damp curls onto the stone floor. Finally she grabbed the blanket from where she'd discarded it near the door and dried herself off with it.

Still shivering, goose bumps trailing down her bare limbs, Christine wrapped her arms tightly across her chest and peered cautiously into the main room again. There was still no sign of Erik. Taking a deep breath, she suddenly bolted forward, racing across the room and up into the safety of her bedroom before collapsing in a ball on her swan bed. Her muscles screamed in agony, and she whimpered softly as she lay perfectly still, waiting for the pain to ebb. Gradually the searing cramps left her throbbing muscles, and she stood gingerly, taking slow, easy steps toward her armoire.

Her features twisted in an expression of disgust as she discovered the floor still covered in her own blood and vomit near her wardrobe. She choked back the urge to retch again, plugging her nose and sidestepping the mess. Her clean chemise and dress were still laid out across the divan, and she retrieved them, along with another corset, before hurrying back to the other side of the room, where the stench was much less noticeable.

_Erik is going to kill me, _she mused as she pulled the chemise over her head. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Oh yes, he would undoubtedly rage and fume because she was, God forbid, capable of taking care of herself. Well, let him throw his little temper tantrum. She was perfectly able to put on her own clothes, and she would insist when he arrived that from now on...

Right on cue, she heard a distinct thud from the bathroom, followed by Erik's frantic cry, "Christine!" She quickly finished tugging the corset over the top of her chemise, and turned to smile nonchalantly at him as he burst through the curtain.

"Right here, Erik," she said sweetly, reaching behind her back to begin lacing up the corset.

As expected, he raced forward immediately to clutch her arm. "What the devil do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

She shrugged. "Getting dressed."

Before she could utter a sound of protest, he scooped her neatly off of her feet and carried her back to the bed. "Oh no you're not." She squirmed in his arms, beating her fists against his firm chest.

"Let—me—go! I'm not a _child_ anymore!"

"Well you're certainly acting like it!"

"Oh, _I'm_ acting like it?" she fumed as he deposited her a bit less gently than before on the bed.

"Yes!" he insisted, sitting on the edge of the bed to block her from getting up. "As a matter of fact…" He dodged her flying fists and grabbed her wrists, pinning them down on the bed. "You are!" He glared down at her stubbornly, and she returned the expression, panting hard as she tried unsuccessfully to squirm out of his strong grasp. "Which part of '_bed res_t' didn't you understand?"

"I'm _fine_!"

He sighed sharply. "Which explains why I had to carry you, _unconscious_, soaked in your own blood, to Nadir's house?" He eyed the puddle in the far corner of the room pointedly.

Christine rolled her eyes, but ceased to struggle as her body was racked with violent coughs. Erik allowed her to raise one hand to cover her mouth, his eyes softening as she curled up in pain. To her surprise he released her entirely and swept out the door.

"Stay there!" he called over his shoulder, just as Christine began to stand up again. She sighed wearily and lay back down; there was no sense in fighting him. She had to choose her battles. Minutes ticked by, and Christine was just about to get up to investigate Erik's whereabouts when he reappeared through the curtain, carrying a steaming mug. He handed it to her with the simple instruction of "Drink this."

She eyed the substance for a moment, and sniffed it experimentally. "Tea?"

"_Verbascum_ _thapsus, Tussilago_ _farfara, Althaea officinalis, _and_ Pimpinella_ _anisum_." At her blank gaze, he sighed and nodded. "Demulcent tea. Should help with the cough."

"Ah." Christine coughed into the back of her hand and took a delicate sip from the proffered mug. She could feel the hot remedy slide all the way down her throat and pool in her stomach. Within moments she had drained it all, and she handed the mug back to Erik, blushing slightly at his intense gaze. "Thank you," she said softly. He accepted the cup, but did not move from her bedside, nor break eye contact. Her blush only deepened as she lowered her eyes. "Erik… I'm sorry for lashing out at you."

He eyed her severely for another moment before dropping to his knees. His posture was a bit friendlier, but the guarded look didn't leave his eyes. "You didn't harm me."

She bit her lip, fidgeting with a corner of the bed sheet. "I just… I didn't…"

"Want my assistance," he finished for her.

"Want to be any more trouble to you," she corrected.

She was surprised to find, as she looked up into his face, that Erik's eyes were filled with a deep pain. He shook his head slowly, his gaze never faltering. "You are no trouble to me, Christine." She shivered slightly as he rolled the "r" of her name, but covered up the movement by pulling the sheets up to her chin. He stiffened slightly at the gesture and rose to his feet, the guarded expression returning instantly. "Get some rest now."

She was only too happy to comply. The soft velvet beckoned to her heavy head, and Erik's herbal tea had already loosened some of the pressure in her chest. Worn out from her exertions, she was asleep within moments.

**A/N: Notice that I end a lot of Christine chapters with her going to sleep? Haha. Meh, she's sick, so I'll forgive myself. This is going somewhere, people, I promise! My cousin and I laid out the next 35 chapters or so yesterday. It'll be fuuun! **


	11. Stranger

**A/N: -smiles secretively- Oh, don't worry, you're not missing anything. Just keep reading!**

The water was eerily calm that morning, blanketed in heavy fog. An old, husky folk tune rose on his lips as he paddled steadily through the mist, his breath rancid with the potent stench of whiskey. It had been a surprisingly successful night; he had left his lover wrapped only in a sheet, her dark curls splayed across the pillow. The two of them had had a bit too much to drink the night before… one thing had led to another, and before he knew it she had been arching underneath him, her cries of ecstasy breaking the silence of the night.

A grin split his face at the memory, and he sat back in the small boat with a contented sigh. A successful night indeed!

He inhaled the tangy, fishy scent of the ocean and untangled the mess of rope and netting at his feet, all the while singing the ancient fisherman's tune under his breath.

_As I roved by the dockside one evening so fair  
To view the salt waters and take in the salt air  
I heard an old fisherman singing a song_

_Oh, take me away boys, me time is not long_

_Wrap me up in me oilskin and blankets  
No more on the docks I'll be seen  
Just tell me old shipmates, I'm taking a trip mates  
And I'll see you someday on Fiddlers Green_

Something told him this would be his lucky day— he'd catch dozens of sleek, juicy fish to bring home to his eager lover. The two of them would surely feast tonight!

He eyed the glassy surface of the water warily; these were dangerous conditions, he knew. The tide had been low over the past week, scuttling many a ship on the jagged rocks. The mist was deceptive, the calm waters giving arrogant captains delusions of grandeur. The inexperienced fools ordered full speed ahead, hoping for an early arrival. It was the last mistake they ever made. Word in the tavern was three ships had gone down in the past two weeks alone, and not one of the poor souls had been found alive. Human corpses washed ashore by the dozen, a gruesome sight indeed; their bodies were bruised and bloodied from being bashed against the rocks, their flesh picked at by carnivorous fish, their remaining skin pale blue from the icy water. About the only thing left to give the grieving families was a battered, mangled body and the consolation that their loved one didn't suffer for long; the subzero temperatures numbed their victims within moments, slowly freezing their organs as the poor souls drifted into eternal sleep.

Shaking these morbid thoughts from his head, he cast the net into the water and reeled it in; nothing. Sighing dejectedly, he paddled out a little deeper and thrust the net about four meters out from the boat. Almost immediately he felt the net snag on something large and heavy. Saying a silent prayer of thanks for the early success, he sat back on his haunches and heaved with all his might, giving a booming laugh. This really was his lucky day!

As his catch came into view, however, his laughter dissolved into a horrified gasp.

"Mary, mother of God…"

His net had snagged on the corner of what appeared to be the remains of a door. A man lay curled atop the wood, clutching something tightly in his arms. Even stranger, he appeared to be alive, but tottering dangerously on the yawning abyss of the afterworld. Shoulder-length hair the color of wet sand had fallen like a curtain, obscuring his face. His body could have easily been mistaken for a corpse, but for the shallow movement of his chest as he drew in weak, rattling breaths.

The fisherman gaped for a moment before he finally reined in his wits. With renewed strength he tugged the driftwood closer until the man's body was within easy reach. His eyes widened as he realized what was clutched so protectively in the man's grasp: an infant, clad in little more than rags. His heart and stomach wrenched concurrently; he didn't know whether to sob or retch. The had obviously been dead for a while, though the man holding it was far too engulfed in fevered unconsciousness to notice. Swallowing hard, the fisherman gently pried the man's fingers from the baby's corpse and took a firm hold of his wrists. Tugging with all his might, he managed to hoist the man's torso over the edge of the boat. Grabbing hold of his waist, he proceeded to pull his hips and legs in as well. He quickly tugged the sodden, frost-laced shirt from the man's trembling form, wincing as he discovered the typical purplish-yellow bruising across his chest. Without thinking twice he yanked the thick, wool-lined winter coat from his own body and wrapped it around the stranger's. Abandoning the lifeless infant and his fishing nets, he picked up the oars and made for shore as fast as his straining muscles would take him.

The dock was empty at this time of morning; no one was there to help him tie up the boat, let alone carry a full-grown man up to his humble cottage. Grunting as he bore the extra weight, he heaved the unconscious stranger onto the deck before hopping up himself. Abandoning his boat to bob and drift in the changing tide, he grabbed the unconscious man under the arms and half-carried, half-dragged him the rest of the way home.

He kicked the front door open and limped into the living room, hoisting the stranger onto his threadbare, shabby couch.

"Charlie, is that you?"

He sighed in relief. "Emily, thank God!" He wheeled about to face her, gasping to find her entirely . For a moment his eyes flashed with desire before he shook his head determinedly. "Put some clothes on, woman, and go fetch the doctor!"

"Why?" she asked stubbornly, planting her hands on her hips. "Who's that?" She tried to glance over his shoulder at the man on the couch. "What the bloody hell you do to 'im?"

"Just GO!" Charlie insisted, turning his back on her to scurry into the kitchen. He grabbed a rag from the sink and the kettle from its place over the fire, and doused the cloth with boiling water. Returning to the couch, he laid his palm on the stranger's forehead; as expected, it burned to the touch while the rest of him was freezing cold. A quick finger-press to the man's neck revealed a faint, erratic pulse. Shaking his head grimly, he dabbed the man's face with the rag. "Come on, friend. I can only help you if you're willing to fight."

He hovered fussily at the man's side like an anxious nursemaid, forcing him to swallow a few mouthfuls of water, heaping him with blankets, and continually dabbing at his handsome, regal face until some of the color returned to his cheeks. Emily returned quickly with the doctor at her heels— an ancient, bespectacled man with studious, piercing blue eyes. He clutched a black leather case in one hand and smoothed his frazzled gray hair with the other.

"Where did you find him?" he asked immediately upon viewing the man on the couch.

"About half a kilometer offshore," Charlie said, scooting over to allow the doctor easier access to his patient. "His chest is already bruising, sir."

"I see that," the doctor confirmed, lifting the blankets to peer at the man's torso. He quickly pulled out a stethoscope and listened for a moment before shaking his head gravely. "His lungs are filled with fluid."

"Hypothermia?" Charlie asked, a sense of dread gripping his own chest.

"And a fairly severe case of pneumonia." The doctor pursed his lips, replacing the stethoscope in his bag. "I'm sorry, Charles, but I'm afraid there's nothing I can do." He sighed deeply, refusing to meet Charlie's gaze. "Keep him warm and comfortable. I'll administer a sedative to assure that he remains unconscious. Hopefully he'll pass within the next few hours."

"Surely there's something you can do," Charlie implored as the doctor prepared the syringe.

The doctor shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid not, Charles." He injected a clear liquid into the man's arm and began to pack up. "His life is in the Lord's hands now. May He have mercy on his soul."

**A/N: -smile broadens- We're going back to Erik and Christine now, but I promise I'll return to Charlie, Emily and the stranger in a few chapters. Aren't I an EVIL authoress? -cackles-**


	12. Soup

**A/N: Welcome back to Erik-land! This chapter is really, REALLY long, but I had to squeeze in a lot of stuff. Anywhoodles, there are some tender E/C moments (we're talking fluff galore) and at times enough sexual tension to cut with a chainsaw. –giggles- Enjoy!**

**Oh! And for devoted "From My Solitude" readers, I'm updating both stories tonight. Call it a double feature if you will. ;) **

"I assure you, m'sieur, my men are working as fast as they can—"

"I don't want excuses, O'Reilly. Name your price."

The balding Irishman rubbed his stubbled chin, scrutinizing Erik's expression. "Money can only buy so much, m'sieur." A smirk pulled at his thin lips. "But for an extra five thousand francs—"

"Do you take me for a fool?" Erik hissed, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm already paying you double the price your petty efforts deserve."

O'Reilly narrowed his gray eyes. "Three, then."

A muscle in Erik's throat tightened as he pulled a thick roll of bills from his cloak and tossed it on the countertop. "I want it finished by the end of the month. Should I discover that your workers are—" he narrowed his own eyes slightly "—incompetent, I shall oversee the developments personally." Taking the end of his cloak in one fist, he wheeled about and stalked out the door. "I shall return in one week to review your progress," he called over his shoulder, stepping over the threshold and into the foggy alley.

The weather had grown increasingly dreary over the past few days, and as he hurried back toward the opera house, Erik found the outside world even less appealing now that Christine awaited him at home. He strode hastily through the deserted side streets, heading for Rue Scribe. As he rounded a corner, a splash of bright red snagged his attention. He paused, eyeing the florist's display with a stab of nostalgia. Dozens of crimson roses were arranged in the window, their rich color contrasting starkly with the damp gray streets.

Without pausing to think, he stepped inside, a small chime on the door announcing his presence. He winced slightly and clenched his teeth—now, he was trapped.

"May I help you, monsieur?" A young woman asked, entering from a back room. She seemed to shrink back a bit at Erik's foreboding appearance, but her superficial smile remained firmly in place. Oh, how he _loathed_ salespeople!

"Yes." He nodded to the display window. "Two…no, three dozen of those roses, stripped of their thorns."

The girl pursed her lips. "I'm sorry, monsieur, but I'm afraid we don't—" She halted mid-sentence, paling as Erik's eyes burned into hers. "I…just…right away, monsieur."

He watched with an air of jaded aggravation as the girl scurried across the room and selected three of the finest bouquets. She very nearly tripped over her skirts as she darted for the safety of the back room to fulfill his additional, strange request. Once she was out of sight he shook his head and gave a weary roll of his eyes. At times he was appreciative of, and amused by, his effortless application of power over others, but at the moment he was merely annoyed. The more this girl blundered, the longer is would take to return to Christine.

_Christine._ His mind lingered on the name, savoring it. Doubt had plagued him night and day over the past week. He refused to sleep, instead staying up to watch her as she dreamed, afraid to blink for fear that he'd open his eyes only to find her just a cruel dream—a mirage. He wondered constantly at her motives for returning, inventing countless excuses for her choice. He refused, simply _refused_, to allow himself the hope that she would stay when she no longer required medical assistance.

_Angel or Father, friend or phantom?_ Erik had no idea how she perceived him any more, or how he was expected to present himself. He had distanced himself from Christine while she was awake, terrified of letting his true feelings surface. While he hadn't the foggiest conception of Christine's motives, he knew exactly what he wanted to be. She had crawled beneath his skin with her music, touched his heart with her innocence, but nothing, _nothing_ could compare to the overwhelming sensation of her lips against his. For that single, precious moment, she had granted him humanity; he had been a man of flesh and blood, just like any other. Delusion or not, he had felt wanted for the first time in his life. There was no greater feeling in the world, and if he lived to see a thousand years he could not replicate the elation and shock and blinding, searing pain of finally experiencing what he had, at the time, believed to be his first exchange of mutual love.

"Monsieur?" the girl asked timidly, snapping Erik from his private thoughts. He had been fingering a rose absently, oblivious to the florist's return. Feigning annoyance, he took the roses from the girl's arms. A fleeting stab of guilt pricked his heart; her fingers were scratched and bloodied from the tedious task of removing the sharp thorns.

"How much?" Erik asked.

"Thirty francs, monsieur."

He shifted the bouquets to one arm and dug in his cloak once again. He pressed a crisp fifty-franc bill into her palm with a curt nod.

"I'll fetch your change—"

"Keep it," he insisted, glancing pointedly at her hands. "For your trouble." He whisked out the door before the girl could stammer her thanks.

He was halfway home when he stopped in his tracks with a groan. There was one last errand he needed to run before returning to Christine. She had come to enjoy her daily baths immensely—the Daroga had evidently been correct in his assertion that they would help with the pain. Erik had been highly embarrassed, however, when Christine informed him she couldn't find a towel. In reality, Erik didn't OWN a towel, but he intended to remedy the problem as quickly as possible.

Where _did_ one buy towels in Paris, anyway?

He grudgingly headed for the nearest main street, slinking back in his cowl to avoid the eyes of other pedestrians. Fortunately, home décor stores seemed to come standard on noisy, bustling boulevards, for he found three within his first minute of searching. Selecting the least crowded of them, he slipped inside with another grating ding of a bell.

"Good day, monsieur," greeted a man behind the counter. "May I help you find something in particular?"

Erik blushed, grateful for the shield of his hood. "Do you sell towels?"

"But of course!" The man strode out from behind the counter and led Erik to the far corner of the room. Shelves lined the wall from floor to ceiling, stuffed with bath towels of every color. He eyed them perplexedly for a moment before the sales clerk added, in a knowing tone, "For your wife?"

Erik fought down a smirk. He would never see this man again; why not? "Yes, she sent me out to buy a new one for her."

The clerk nodded, his smile widening as he plucked a thick white towel from the rack and handed it to Erik. "My wife has an entire set of these at home."

_What a horrendous waste of money,_ Erik thought. Nevertheless, he supposed this towel was as good as any of the others, so he hastily paid the man and departed the store, swearing that the next time he heard one of those damned door chimes, he'd smash it to pieces.

He practically sprinted back to the Opera Populaire, purchases in hand. He heaved a sigh of relief as he stepped into the catacombs, glad to be home at last.

_With my beautiful WIFE, _he snickered to himself_. Waiting for me. In a tub of hot water. Naked. _

"No!" he growled aloud, shaking his head vehemently to rid himself of the train of thought. "No, no, and no!"

"Erik, is that you?" Christine called from the bathroom, stopping him mid-chastisement.

He cleared his throat as he stepped into the main room, setting the roses down on the organ bench. "Who else, Madame?" He paused, climbing the stairs to stand just outside the bathroom door. "I bought you something."

The surprise was evident in her tone. "You did?"

He tossed the towel into the bathroom, careful not to look in. It was an unspoken agreement— she allowed him to assist her as long as he respected her privacy. He smiled at her gleeful gasp.

"Thank you, Erik!" she called. He could hear the splashing of water as she climbed out of the tub to retrieve it from the floor.

"You're welcome, _mon ange_," he whispered, a wistful smile playing at his lips. Then, a bit more loudly, "Tell me when you're ready."

There was silence for a moment before she consented, "All right." He stepped into the bathroom to find her wrapped snugly in the towel from chest to knees. She had twisted her hair into a tight spiral and pushed it in front of her shoulder. Her skin was soft and pink from the warm water; every day she looked healthier.

Erik blinked, realizing that he had been staring unabashedly for the past few seconds. He gently lifted her into his arms, and Christine clasped her hands behind his neck. They stared into one another's eyes for a fleeting moment before looking away, their gazes settling on the first available objects.

He carried Christine to her bedroom and set her carefully on her feet, one hand grabbing her waist for support.

"Do you need help dressing?" he asked out of habit, already knowing her answer.

"No, thank you." She shook her curly head and offered a weak smile. "I can manage."

He nodded and turned back to the main room. "Very well. I'll go prepare your tea." He squeezed his eyes shut and shivered once he was well out of sight; he didn't know how long he could go on like this. She was perfection incarnate, and he could not have her. Slowly but surely, she was driving him mad.

_If only she knew._

He tried to focus on the tea, on which herbal remedies to try today, on _anything_ but the fact that she was changing in the next room. His fingers fumbled on the china cups, and he cursed violently as one of them fell to the floor, shattering into thousands of tiny white shards.

_Get a hold of yourself, man! _A voice in the back of his mind hissed. _What happened to your invincible self-control? _

He took a deep breath, clenching his fists until they were steady. His emotional mask was slipping, and he could not afford to let Christine see beneath this one. He would only make a fool of himself, for he was positive the feelings were not mutual. Once already he had made the mistake of lowering his guard—his endeavor in the study had quickly been shot down as she yanked out of his embrace. He had forgotten that he was a monster, incapable of being loved by any woman, let alone Christine. He had been a fool, and he would not allow his dignity to be wounded again.

With renewed self-control, he replaced the walls of stone around his heart and proceeded to brew Christine's tea without error. Setting the kettle, cup, sugar, and cream on a small gold tray, he strode evenly across the room, pausing at her door.

"Are you finished?" he called, his voice perfectly steady.

"Yes, come in." He was shocked to find that it was_ her _voice that wavered slightly. He brushed the thought aside, assuring himself that he had imagined it.

He found her sitting on the bed, dressed in a white silk nightgown and a lacy robe embroidered with rosebuds. His innards flipped over, but he clenched his teeth and approached her unflinchingly, setting the tray in her lap.

"Thank you." Christine's voice was barely a whisper, and she refused to meet his eyes as she lifted the small cup to her lips and sipped delicately.

Erik merely nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He stared intently as she drank, watching the way her lips folded over the edge of the cup, the way the muscles in her throat worked as she swallowed the tea. He quickly arrived at the conclusion that _everything _she did was graceful and excruciatingly beautiful. She blushed lightly under his intense gaze, and he finally tore his eyes away as she set her cup back on the tray. He lifted it from her lap, every nerve in his body searing as his fingers brushed the soft flesh of her thigh.

He turned away as quickly as possible so she wouldn't see the blood that had flooded to his cheeks. "I'm sure you're hungry. I'll make some soup."

She hesitated, drawing in a breath as if to say something important, but seemed to decide against it. "Thank you. That would be wonderful."

He strode into the kitchen area without a backward glance, running his fingers from the bridge of his nose up through his hair as if it would ease his throbbing headache.

"Damn it, Daroga," he grumbled under his breath as he put a pot over the fire. "This is all your fault." He was positive the Persian had planned this all along; this was his sick, twisted idea of fun—torturing Erik with the unattainable. He glowered as he pulled a chicken breast from his small icebox and began to clean it for cooking. "I hope you're happy."

He spent the rest of the time working in silence, preparing hot chicken soup for Christine. Granted, she couldn't eat the actual chicken, but at her insistence he reluctantly ate the remaining meat. Food had always been something to battle over ever since he was a child, and he honestly preferred to avoid it altogether. However, he found that mealtimes with Christine were surprisingly…pleasant. The food was decent, Christine seemed much less grumpy with food in her belly, and they often exchanged small talk as they ate. He felt almost…_normal_…during such occasions.

As he ladled the soup into a large silver bowl, a sweet sound from the bedroom nearly made him spill the hot liquid all over himself. Trembling from head to toe, he set the bowl down and closed his eyes, listening.

His Persian music box was chiming softly, and Christine's voice, weak and tremulous, yet breathtakingly beautiful, accompanied it.

_Masquerade, paper faces on parade, Masquerade_

_Hide your face so the world will never find you_

His eyes stung with unshed tears at the onslaught of memories that accompanied both the song and her precious voice. Swallowing hard against the lump forming in his throat, he stepped over to the organ bench and picked up the roses. "Christine, I love you," he mouthed.

After a moment he selected six roses from the bouquets and set the rest back on the organ bench. He half-ran down to his desk, yanking open the second drawer. Six rolls of black ribbon sat in the bottom of the drawer, lightly coated with dust. He quickly snatched one roll and a pair of scissors, snipping off six pieces, each precisely twelve centimeters long. Smiling softly as Christine's voice continued to saturate his thirsty soul, he tied a neat bow around each of the rose stems and brought them back to the kitchen. He carefully prepared her supper, placing the silver bowl and spoon on the golden tray before arranging the roses in a border around the edge. Nodding to himself, he gently lifted it and carried it into her bedroom.

Christine jerked slightly and looked up at him with wide eyes as he entered the room, as if she were a child caught doing something inappropriate. Erik merely smiled, setting the tray down on the bed.

"I named it Nadir, you know," he said, his eyes twinkling as he looked down at the music box. "The resemblance is uncanny."

Christine laughed uncomfortably, slowly climbing to her feet and moving back toward the bed. "I like Monsieur Khan. How did the two of you meet?"

Erik's eyes darkened slightly. "Persia." Sensing that she wished more of an explanation, he elaborated, "He was the chief of police, and I was the kharnum's favorite magician."

Christine smiled, sitting on the edge of the bed. She began to say something, but her gaze settled on the tray, and the sound caught in her throat. Her hand flew to her heart and she gasped. "Oh, Erik…"

"One for each day you've been here," he said, trying to keep his tone as indifferent as possible. He shrugged. "Old habits die hard."

Were those tears he saw in her eyes? He was never sure, for the next moment she took him entirely by surprise. She leaned forward, wrapping her slender arms around his neck and placing a gentle kiss on his mottled cheek. Erik's mouth fell open in shock, and it took him a moment to get his bearings and remember to breathe. Christine, too, seemed to be surprised by her actions, for she was suddenly remarkably interested in her soup. Erik stared at her for a moment in disbelief before averting his gaze, staring instead at the monkey box.

They sat in uncomfortable silence, the tension palpable in the air between them. Christine played with the soup, stirring it in circles. "Aren't you going to eat anything?" she asked quietly.

"I'm not hungry," he insisted. He refused to meet her gaze for fear of finding her face twisted in disgust at kissing his revolting deformity. No wonder she had lost her appetite!

His muscles went rigid as Christine's small fingers came to rest on his left cheek, tilting his face toward hers. His heart melted within his chest as he looked down into her beautiful sienna eyes, heartbroken and pleading for understanding.

"Erik," she whispered, her voice threatening to break as tears welled in her eyes. "I truly can't thank you enough for everything you've done for me these past few days." He closed his eyes, unable to bear the pain etched into every line of her face. "God only knows what would have happened had I…" She shook her head, as if the thought were too unbearable to put into words. She swallowed hard, lowering her head as Erik opened his eyes. "I'm… I'm so sorry I didn't tell you about the baby." Her voice cracked, and a single glistening tear escaped down her cheek. "I just… I was afraid…"

"Afraid I'd lose my temper," he finished, each word dripping with self-loathing.

Christine shook her head desperately, her eyes widening even further. "No…"

"Don't lie to me, Christine."

She bowed her head, sniffling and nodding miserably.

"I frighten you."

"No." This time there was conviction in her voice. "You used to. I used to fear your wrath… what you were capable of. But after this…" She placed a hand lightly on her flat stomach and shook her head, a haunted look creeping into her eyes. "I don't fear anything any more."

_Oh, but I do, _he wanted to say. _I'm terrified of losing you again._

Instead he said simply, "I'm sorry, Christine. You should never have had to suffer like this."

She finally met his gaze again, her eyes both inquisitive and fearful. "You never wished ill of me? After what I did to you?"

"No." It was the truth. During his months of brooding, he had felt an odd mixture of self-pity, woe, and self-hatred, but never had it occurred to him to curse Christine for her choice. If he were to be perfectly honest with himself, he could not blame her. His demons had raged that night as he fought desperately and rashly for the woman he loved.

Christine's lower lip trembled, and for the second time that night she caught Erik completely off-guard, snaking her arms around his back and nestling her forehead into his chest. He sat perfectly still for a moment, unsure of what to do. Slowly, very slowly, he brought his hands to rest on her back, rubbing the tensed muscles gently as sobs racked her frail body.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered into his chest, her fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. "I'm so sorry, Erik." He closed his eyes, the lump in his throat burning.

"Please don't," he murmured into her hair. "You're alright, Christine. I'm alright. Don't cry." But his words only seemed to spur on her weeping. His mind reeled as he desperately tried to think of a way to soothe her pain.

And suddenly it hit him.

With his eyes still closed, he began to sing softly in her ear, all the while rubbing her back to the rhythm of their lullaby.

_Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation_

_Darkness stirs and wakes imagination_

_Silently the senses abandon their defenses_

She breathed a deep sigh, relaxing into his chest. Her sobs dissolved into shaky breaths as he continued quietly.

_Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor_

_Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender_

He was pleasantly surprised when she began to sing with him, her voice faint, almost like an angel's whisper.

_Turn your face away from the garish light of day_

_Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light_

_And listen to the music of the night_

Their voices faded into silence. Neither dared to move; both were barely breathing, as if the slightest sound would break the moment.

Finally, it was Erik who snapped back to his senses. His heart clenched as he realized that he had just allowed himself to slip… he was an idiot, just begging for more pain and rejection. This time it was he who broke the embrace, pausing just centimeters from Christine's face. He could feel the warm, moist breath coming from her lips, and she half-closed her eyes, as if waiting for something.

He shook himself mentally, positive he had imagined it. With all the professional indifference of a strange doctor, he said calmly, "Your soup is getting cold," and swept from the room without another word.

**A/N: -cackles- Don't you just LOVE Erik? **

**Kudos to Sandy for all the help on this chapter! I might as well just give you co-writing credit for this story… half the brilliant ideas are yours. ;)**

**And of course, I bow to my beta, who makes me laugh hysterically until tears stream down my cheeks. A moose indeed, Em! –snorts with laughter- **

**Regarding the previous chapter: **

**-smiles secretively- No, it wasn't just a random filler. Everything will fall into place soon enough, I promise. There will be at least two other HUGE plot twists to this story that hopefully will make all of you go "WHOA!" –giggles- Your reviews had me in stitches, though. Teehee. We'll stick with Erik and Christine for another four or five chapters before returning to Charlie, Emily and the gang, don't worry.**

**And YES to whoever said Charlie reminded them of Mr. Gibbs from "Pirates of the Caribbean!" That was PRECISELY how I imagined him, but the fact that the same actor plays Joseph Buquet makes things a bit complicated. ;)**

**Thank you all a million times over for the reviews! Erik plushies for everyone who leaves feedback! –tosses them to my beloved reviewers- Press his right hand and he sings "Point of No Return," try to pry off his mask and he pulls out a nifty Punjab lasso! Batteries not included. **


	13. Lessons

**A/N: Alrighty then, we're back to little Miss Christine. I do try to be fair to her in this story, really I do – I mean, I am about to JUSTIFY her reasons for choosing Raoul. Come on now.**

Christine sat perfectly still, staring blankly at the curtain Erik had just disappeared through.

_Your soup is getting cold? Your SOUP is getting cold?_

She blinked once, closing her gaping lips. Then, quite suddenly, she threw her head back, her entire body shaking with wild laughter. She clutched the sheets to keep herself upright, laughing until her ribs ached and tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. The absurdity of it all had finally driven her mad, she decided. She didn't know what to expect from Erik any more… then again, she never had. But after the unexpected gifts of the towel and the roses, simple as they had been…

Her laughter slowly ebbed into giggles, and finally silence. She coughed, shaking her head. It was ridiculous; absolutely ridiculous.

_I didn't expect anything, _she told herself as she dipped her spoon into the lukewarm soup and brought it to her lips. _I certainly didn't expect him to… to… _

_Kiss me,_ another voice finished for her. She choked on her soup, bringing up a hand to keep it from dribbling down her chin.

"No," she whispered harshly, blocking out the intruding voices. Raoul. She needed to think of her sweet, dependable, predictable Raoul. It was the only way she could prevent herself from succumbing to the madness of this life with Erik. Above all else, she feared losing control over her own mind and actions. It was this fear that had driven her into Raoul's arms in the first place. She could deal with Erik's temper… his irrational outbursts, mood swings, sarcasm, and emotional baggage. Were she to be honest with herself, it wasn't even the fact that he had killed Piangi and Buquet which had turned her away. It was because, despite the terrible, mortal sins, she could not bring herself to hate him as she knew she should. Quite the contrary, actually.

On the fateful night of _Don Juan Triumphant,_ she had immediately guessed Piangi's fate upon seeing Erik onstage. Despite her best efforts, however, Erik had seeped beneath her skin, and for those brief moments she didn't care about anything but pleasing him. She had sung with a passion she didn't know she possessed, stirred within her only by the power of Erik's own voice. And it had frightened her. When she finally remembered herself, she had done the only thing that came to mind— Erik had removed her mask, penetrating every level of her soul, and in that moment she wanted nothing more than to make him feel the vulnerability and helplessness he inflicted upon her every time he sang. Consequences be damned.

Everyone had suffered for her rash actions that night— Erik, Raoul, and herself above all. The situation had only worsened when Erik eliminated all options but one; he knew damned well that she wouldn't let Raoul hang for her freedom. Yet again, he had insured his dominance over her life. She had known of only one weakness, one miniscule flaw in his plan, and exploited it.

She would never forget the look in his eyes as she had tilted his head down and brought her lips up to meet his; her heart broke as she stared up into his incredulous face. His fuming, monstrous temper dissolved into helpless tears as she had granted him his first kiss. His arms never enveloped her; he hardly moved at all, except for his curious lips and meek tongue— indeed, he had been so surprised, it had taken him a few seconds to respond to her kiss, his muscles relaxing gradually before stiffening once again with sobs. Christine had trembled nearly as much as Erik, assuring herself that she was doing this for Raoul… she wasn't enjoying it, and she most certainly didn't love Erik… she DIDN'T…

Unwittingly, he had been manipulating her again. When he had stumbled away from her, doubled over with pained sobs, her decision was immediate and brash. Terror gripped her heart… terror that she could so deeply care for a murderer, a man who had just tried to kill her only childhood friend. Raoul had been her safe choice, her escape, and she had run from her past and the blinding, confusing emotions stirred within her by her tutor. No backward glances. But her games of make-believe had just begun.

She should have expected him to get beneath her skin again. She had been stupid enough to believe that somehow she had grown up during her short-lived marriage to Raoul and the loss of her baby. Instead she had longed for the mindless comfort of Erik's presence. The death of her beloved friend and husband had been shattering, for she knew that she could no longer hide behind the façade of a carefree, perfect life. Losing the baby was the second and more painful blow; that child would have been her salvation, her last link to the security and predictability of life among the elite. When she lost it, she knew she had no choice but to return to Erik. Her soul beckoned her down to the cellars of the opera house, and without Raoul as her anchor, she had no choice but to succumb to the whims of her passion. She no longer had the strength to resist.

But she had not planned on Erik's attitude. His mood changed as often as the wind— he was doting, sweet, and understanding one moment, aggravatingly stubborn the next, then suddenly, without warning, in a raging temper. But the most frightening thing of all was his ability to flawlessly mask his emotions. When he so decided, Christine could not for the life of her decipher what was going on beneath those cool, glassy green eyes. It was an unfair advantage, and utterly frustrating, because she had no such ability; he could read her like an open book with one penetrating glance. But it seemed every time she came close to discovering his true feelings, for one reason or another, his guard would immediately snap up, as if he were slamming the door to his heart and mind in her face.

This was one of those times.

She sighed, leaning back against the pillows and pushing her soup to the side. Her fingers brushed a velvet rose petal, and she winced as if she'd been stung. Very slowly, she lifted the flower to her nose and inhaled deeply. She hadn't seen a live rose since the night of _Don Juan Triumphant._ Raoul had insisted that all the rose gardens on their estate be destroyed immediately upon their arrival. Christine had been grateful at the time, but now she felt the distinct stab of nostalgia pierce her heart as she fingered the magnificent flower.

She remembered vividly the last time she had woken in this swan bed… wandering into the main room to find Erik busy at work… the look on his face as she gently caressed his cheek… his eyes going wide in anguish as she lifted the mask for the first time… his violent temper revealing itself for the first time.

Biting down on her tongue, she squeezed her eyes shut against the memory. When she reopened them her gaze wandered once more to the curtain, and very slowly and quietly, she crossed the room and peered through.

Erik was sitting at his organ, his elbows resting on the top, his head in his hands. Christine frowned guiltily, stepping down the stairs to stand behind him.

"You don't play any more," she noted sadly, her voice startling him. He spun quickly to face her, surprise changing swiftly into irritation.

"You're not supposed to be out of bed," he grumbled.

"Why?" she asked as if she hadn't heard him, sitting on the bench next to him and resting her fingers on the keys.

Erik swallowed, looking away. "I should think that would be obvious."

She winced, but said nothing. Instead she pursed her lips and began to play a soft hymn, her fingers gliding gently over the keys.

"What are you doing?"

She nearly smiled; Erik's emotional mask was slipping, for she could hear the longing beneath his growl. "It's Sunday," she replied coolly. "And as I'm guessing you weren't planning on taking me to mass, I'll have to worship on my own."

And with that, she began to sing.

_Come unto Me, when shadows darkly gather,_

_When the sad heart is weary and distressed;_

_Seeking for comfort from your Heavenly Father,_

_Come unto Me, and I will give you rest. _

_Large are the mansions in thy Father's dwelling;_

_Glad are the homes that sorrows never dim:_

_Sweet are the harps in holy music swelling;_

_Soft are the tones which raise the heavenly hymn._

_There, like an Eden blossoming in gladness,_

_Bloom the fair flowers the earth too rudely pressed;_

_Come unto Me, all ye who droop in sadness,_

_Come unto Me, and I will give you rest._

Erik tilted his head to one side, listening with his eyes half-closed as she sang. A frown line grew deeper and deeper in his forehead as she finished the last verse, and her voice began to tremble slightly under his intense gaze.

"Have I taught you nothing?" he said harshly, his piercing green eyes boring into hers. She kept her head lowered as the blood rushed up to her cheeks. He reached out suddenly, lifting her chin with his finger. "Head up. There's no sense in singing to your knees. Now try that last verse again."

She did, her blush deepening as Erik let out another aggravated sigh. "Christine, what was the very first thing I taught you?" She shrugged helplessly. His fingertips came to rest on her diaphragm.

"Sing from here…" They slowly moved up in a burning trail to caress her chest, and Christine shivered at his touch. "Not here." She hesitantly looked up at him through her eyelashes. "Try it again." His hand did not move, and Christine's stomach tied itself in knots as she obeyed to the best of her ability. Her voice wavered uncontrollably as she sang, but Erik nodded as she finished the line.

"Better. Again." She complied, gradually growing accustomed to the weight of Erik's hand on her chest as he felt for the strength of vibrations. Although his touch was feather-light, he seemed to be squeezing the air from her lungs. After eight more tries, he seemed satisfied.

"You are out of practice," he noted, finally removing his hand and setting it in his lap.

Christine lowered her eyes sadly. "Perhaps you weren't the only one who abandoned music that night."

He didn't answer for a moment. His eyes roamed to a broken mirror on the left of the organ before he responded quietly, "A pity. I always insisted your voice was the most beautiful in the world."

Christine was silent; what was she supposed to say to such a compliment, especially after being berated by him for the past ten minutes? Finally he turned back to face her, his eyes filled with a deep, familiar pain.

_Those pleading eyes that both threaten and adore… _The phrase surfaced in her mind, unbidden. Never had it so appropriately described those smoldering green orbs.

His face was dangerously close to hers; she could feel his warm breath on her lips, soft and promising and so horribly tempting. "Your life holds such potential, Christine. With the proper instruction, you could become anything you wanted to be… anything…"

Her heart pounded like a caged hummingbird in her chest. She wanted desperately to tell him that the only thing she wanted to be at the moment was lost in those voluptuous lips, but courage failed her at the last moment, and she pulled away. "Does this mean we are to continue our lessons again?"

Erik nodded slowly, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. Was that disappointment she saw flash in his eyes? "If you wish."

"I do," she said quickly… perhaps a little _too_ quickly.

"Very well." He rose swiftly to his feet and scooped her up unexpectedly. "But this does not mean you have permission to roam the house as you please. You are still confined to bed rest for the next week."

She groaned, tilting her head back dramatically and scowling as he carried her back to her room. "I feel _fine_, Erik! Just let me walk."

"You aren't fine," he insisted, stepping through the curtain and laying her gently on the bed. His stubborn expression mirrored her own as he towered over her. "Don't give me that look! You heard Nadir— you're supposed to stay in bed. I'm just following orders."

Christine raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't under the impression that you took orders from anyone."

"Then why waste your breath attempting the impossible?" he countered quickly, a smirk painted across his face.

"Touché."

He gave a mock bow, and Christine giggled.

"Get some rest. I'll wake you at suppertime." He turned on his heel to leave.

"Thank you," Christine said quickly, before she lost her nerve.

He stopped and turned to face her again, one eyebrow arched quizzically. "For what?"

"Everything." She pursed her lips and gestured around her. "For taking me in… for caring for me, for the tea and the soup and the towel and the roses and…" She paused to take a breath, and lowered her eyes. "For giving me music again. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it."

His eyes softened and he shook his head. "It was a mutual gift, Christine. No thanks are necessary." He turned again and strode across the room, pausing briefly at the door. "But if it makes you feel better… you're welcome." And with a swish of the curtain, he left her in peace.

**A/N: Can you guys see it coming? Can you, can you? –squee- I'm so excited! I love steamy E/C romance! Haha. Soon, my preciousss, soon… I can feel it in the air… Ok, done with the geeky Lord of the Ring lines. ;) Thank you, as always, to Sandy and Em for their priceless help! **


	14. Beginnings

**A/N: Okay, so we're back to Charlie, Emily and the Stranger sooner than I had expected. Don't think that means you can skim this chapter, though… a lot of this stuff will be critically important later on. ;) **

She could do nothing but stare.

Charlie left the room almost immediately after the doctor's departure, unable to look down into the handsome face of the dying stranger. He stopped to kiss Emily's exposed shoulder, his stained whiskers causing her to writhe almost imperceptibly.

"Take care of him for me, Em. I can't stand to watch a man die."

"'ow thoughtful of you to pin that blessed task on _me_," she retorted.

Charlie eyed her wearily. "I'm not paying you to argue. Either take care of the boy, or come to bed with me. You'll provide comfort for one of the men in this house— take your pick."

She locked her jaw stubbornly, her eyes falling upon the unconscious man. She jutted her chin towards the boy, and Charlie nodded.

"That's what I thought. I'm going to go see if I can fetch my boat from the tide. Call for me if he wakes, understood?"

She nodded once, standing perfectly still as he brushed his fingers across her collarbone and neck. "You're a good kid, Emily." He grabbed the base of her neck and pressed his mouth down into hers. She shuddered at the overwhelming taste of stale whiskey, but obediently kissed him back. After what seemed an eternity he finally pulled away and smiled at her. She twisted her lips up into what she hoped would pass as a genuine smile, though the expression didn't quite reach her eyes. If Charlie noticed, he didn't show it. He winked at her and pinched her buttock before heading out to the docks.

Once Emily was alone with the stranger, she let out the breath she'd been holding, scraping her fingernails back across her scalp. Her long, smoky brown hair was oily and grimy; more than anything, she wanted a nice hot bath. But such luxuries came at a price— everything came at a price. At age twelve she had learned that allowing men to pound into her generally earned enough to live off of. Since then, she had earned the reputation of being an excellent whore, bedding everyone from the village idiot to the wealthy Earl of Brighton.

When she had met Charlie at the tavern the previous night he had been so drunk he could hardly see straight. He had offered to give her room, board, and a decent salary for an entire week— luck almost unheard of for a young woman of her status. She played her part beautifully, pretending to thrill at his touch, arching up beneath him while she was truly numb to pleasure or pain. He was a fool… he probably even _believed _her declaration that she was "in love with him." It was so pitiful it was funny. Emily Neilson had never loved a man in her life. Certainly a pot-bellied, whiskey-reeking, unkempt fisherman would not change her mind.

Fortunately, Fate had allowed her the chance to take care of a vegetable for the afternoon instead of giving herself up to Charlie again.

Twisting her hair into a knot, she stepped over to the couch and lifted the wet rag from the boy's face. She gasped softly as she took in the regal cut of his face, his fine bone structure, full cheeks, and pale skin. He was wealthy, to be sure, and devastatingly handsome, at that. Charlie had removed his shirt, and Emily felt the strong prod of curiosity. As her fingers lifted the edge of the blanket a cold shiver shook the base of her spine, sending cold tendrils shooting throughout her body. It felt almost… wrong to be unveiling such a vulnerable young man… hardly more than a boy, really. She felt filthy at the thought of touching him, but finally her curiosity got the better of her, and she lifted the blankets, gasping again at the sight. His chest was full and tone; the skin was stretched tightly over his firm muscles, but near the bottom of his ribcage the skin was mottled and purple. Her fingers skirted the skin lightly, and the boy twitched in his sleep. She withdrew her hand immediately, her eyes darting to his face. A small frown creased his brow, as if he were having a bad dream.

"Who _are_ you?" Emily wondered aloud, replacing the blankets. The boy jerked slightly, giving a small whimper in the back of his throat. Pity flooded her, and she cupped his face, gently rubbing his high cheekbone with her thumb. He stilled under her touch, his features relaxing. After a moment she rose silently to her feet and picked up the damp rag again. "Well, you 'old tight, m'lord," she said half-jokingly. "I'll be right back."

As she turned away, she was horrified to find that she couldn't wipe the giddy grin from her face. _What the hell is wrong with me? _She shook her head and managed to force a stony expression as she re-doused the rag with warm water from the kettle and wrung it out. But internally, she felt as if a flock of butterflies had hatched in her stomach. She knew absolutely nothing about this boy… and for the first time in her life, she wanted to. Her one rule when accepting a job was no questions— no history. It only served to complicate things. Then again, this boy wasn't a customer. Somehow, the thought of taking him to bed sickened her. There was innocence in every soft line of his face, a sort of childlike earnestness that made her feel repulsive and dirty.

_You're imagining things, _the rational side of her mind snapped. _Get a grip. _

Steeling her nerves, she turned back to the boy. He was writhing again, the corner of the blanket grasped in his white-knuckled fist. She sat beside him and placed the warm rag on his forehead, then smoothed the blond hair back from his face. "Shh, m'lord," she soothed, continually stroking his fair locks. She smiled; the nickname had taken root. Of course, she couldn't be sure he was truly of high breeding, but her instincts told her the title was fairly accurate. Her smile dissolved, however, as the boy began to thrash more violently, his limbs flailing beneath the blankets as if he were drowning in them.

She was taken by surprise as he began to speak, his voice a hoarse, heavily accented whisper. "_No… no, mon Dieu… s'îl vous plait… s'îl vous plait, no… Christine… CHRISTINE!_" His voice rose to a desperate scream, his features twisted in pain. A few tears escaped down his cheeks, and he trembled uncontrollably. Emily swallowed hard and quickly straddled him, pinning him to the couch. She caught his flying hands by the wrists and pressed them down into the cushions.

"Hush… shhh… calm down," she begged, a lump growing in her throat as he struggled weakly against her. "Please, just calm down. You'll 'urt yourself. Shh… just lie still, m'lord. Everything will be alright."

Of course, she knew it was a lie. He was dying. The doctor had said so himself… there was no chance at all of survival. He would be dead in a few hours. His heart would still in that strong chest, his lungs would grow more and more full of life-sapping fluid, and finally breath would cease to rattle between those perfect lips.

Hot tears stung her eyes at the thought.

_He's so young, _her heart cried. _He doesn't deserve to die._

_You're weak! _her mind countered. _Look at you! You haven't cried since you were four. You're sickening… falling to pieces over a boy you don't even know._

For the first time in the past ten years, her heart won out.

When the boy finally ceased to thrash, she carefully climbed off of him, kneeling at his head. His features were still contorted with pain, but he lay perfectly still… almost too still. Emily slowly tilted her ear to his lips— air moved faintly, and she sighed in relief.

Crossing herself, she sat back on her feet and clutched the small gold crucifix around her neck. Bowing her head, she said a silent prayer.

_You know me. I've never asked for anything, and I expect nothing from You. But please… let this boy live, I beg You. Let me make him well again. _

"What are you doing?" Charlie's voice startled her, and her eyes snapped open. She twisted around to face him, frowning slightly.

"Praying."

Charlie's expression softened, and he nodded. "Aye. I should probably call a priest." Emily swallowed and turned back to face the boy, smoothing his hair. Charlie's footsteps approached her, and the hairs on the back of her neck bristled. His breathing was heavy and erratic; she knew what he wanted even before she felt his fingers in her hair. "But first, come with me, love," he said huskily. "He'll be fine for a few minutes."

Emily felt her heart drop into her stomach. She closed her eyes and bit the inside of her lip, nodding. To deny him now would mean getting kicked out of the house… and then she'd no longer be able to tend to the boy.

_And you care WHY? _The voice in her head sneered.

_He needs me, _she told it stubbornly.

She allowed Charlie to help her to her feet, flashing him a seductive smile as he wrapped his arm around her waist and led her down the hall. God, she was so sick of pretending.

Swallowing hard, she glanced over her shoulder one last time before shutting the bedroom door.

**A/N: -winces- Okay, so I'm just mean to my poor characters in general. Bite me. ;)**


	15. Confession

**A/N: -alternately grins and whimpers- Ohh, you guys are gonna kill me. First you're gonna adore and glomp me, and then I'm slowly going to be tortured to death. –keeps hand at level of eyes-**

**Just a fair warning: this is one of the chapters that earns this story its M rating. If you're not familiar with the rating system, please look it up before continuing. The story, from this point on, is very deserving of its rating due to sexual content, language, and violence. I suppose the equivalent, in film terms, is that from now on, we're in rated-R territory. Just so we're clear! **

Without his music, Erik was lost. At last his muse had returned to him, stirring up inspiration within his willing soul, but his logical self refused to let it bubble to the surface. He was being ripped apart at the seams, slowly and painfully, by his internal battle between heart and mind.

So he paced. Back and forth, back and forth, from one end of the lair to another. Occasionally he would step through the broken mirror and venture up into the charred remains of the opera house for a change of scenery, but painful memories lingered in every ash-coated centimeter of the place, and eventually he would return to the cellars to pace some more.

In a rare emission of his pent-up turmoil, he knocked over a bronze candelabrum, taking a small amount of childish pleasure in his destructive capabilities. He needed something to take his mind away from the organ, the violin, the harp, the cello… perhaps it would be better to burn them all and rid himself of the temptation.

But then, Christine was healing rapidly. She would undoubtedly leave the moment her health allowed her to make the journey back to the de Chagny estate, and Erik knew he would need the comfort of his music when she once again tore his heart from his chest and ran away with it. He needed to be prepared.

_I failed,_ he thought, kicking the fallen candelabrum into the lake. _I promised myself I wouldn't let her have my soul again._

"You're a coward and a fool, Erik," he grumbled under his breath. The confession didn't make him feel any better; on the contrary, the desire to smash something welled up within him. His eyes wandered helplessly to the already-broken mirrors, and he shook his head.

_There's an idea,_ he mused morbidly. _Maybe I should smash my HEAD into tiny pieces. That would solve the problem altogether._

He sighed, coming to a standstill beside the lake. No. Suicide wasn't an option… at least not until Christine left him again. Hesitantly, he looked down at his reflection, and cringed at what he saw.

His hair was even more disheveled than usual, the mousy brown locks standing on end in some places and swept in the wrong direction in others. The skin on both sides of his face seemed to sag from his cheekbones, as if attached by very thin thread. His eyes were bloodshot from a lack of sleep, and he had grown terribly thin, so his tattered clothes hung limply from his once-full frame.

Never before had he thought himself so fitting of his former nickname. He truly did resemble a living corpse.

_Wonderful,_ his mind snapped as he resumed his pacing. _I'm more repulsive now than I was three months ago. I'm surprised Christine can stand to look at me without retching all over the place. How can she stand to eat at all, with a rotting corpse handing her the food? _

The urge to destroy something swelled even stronger within his tortured being. His murderous eyes fell automatically on the largest, most protrusive object in the room. Ignoring the wrenching pain in his gut, he grabbed the candelabrum from the lake, wringing his hands around it to get a good grip. He approached the organ like a lioness stalking its prey, poising the candelabrum over his shoulder, ready to strike. For a moment he merely stared down at the beautiful polished ivory keys that were causing him so much torment. Then, squeezing his eyes shut, he lifted the bronze pole over his head…

But before he could bring it crashing down upon his beloved organ, a piercing scream sounded from Christine's bedroom. The candelabrum clattered to the ground behind him as he raced across the room and tore through the curtain.

Christine was sitting bolt upright in the swan bed, her face, chest, and hair soaked in sweat. She was deathly pale, her eyes like saucers. Her entire body quaked violently, and she gasped for breath as if surfacing from an extended time underwater. Upon seeing him, her face twisted, her lower lip trembling.

"Erik," she sobbed, stretching out one small, pale hand to him. He went to her without hesitation, his self-reprimanding instantly forgotten. He enveloped her petite hand in his two larger ones and sat on the bed beside her, stroking her knuckles with his thumbs. Christine choked on a sob and pressed her free hand to her mouth, staring at her knees and shaking her head.

"I can't do this anymore," she whispered, a fresh stream of tears trickling down her cheeks.

Erik's heart leapt up into his throat; his voice came out abnormally high-pitched as he asked cautiously, "Do what?"

The muscles in her pale neck strained as she swallowed hard and shook her head again, squeezing her eyes shut. "I don't want to burden you, Erik…"

He reached up and cupped her cheeks with his fingertips, lifting her face up to his. His touch softened at the heartbroken look in her eyes, and he brushed her tears away. "Please," he said, adopting the deep, breathy voice of her Angel of Music. "Tell me, Christine. Tell me everything."

He was mildly surprised when she did.

"I know you don't want to hear it, but I can't stop thinking of Raoul." His heart dropped as if tied to an anchor, a foul taste forming in his mouth. He tried his best to mask it for Christine's benefit, nodding to urge her on. "He's everywhere, Erik, watching me… I just—I can't…" She dropped her head as her chest heaved with broken sobs. "It would se-serve me r-right if he haunted me for the r-rest of my life! I killed his baby, Erik! I killed his baby." Her voice gradually faded until it was hardly a whisper. "And then… and then I… I came back to you. I needed you." Had he not known better, he would have sworn his heart was attached to a yoyo string wound around Christine's finger, for it once again lifted excitedly, pounding wildly in his chest. "But my husband hadn't been in his grave a week. What kind of wife am I, Erik, to betray him so easily? God… God, I just realized…" She covered her mouth, her eyes overflowing with tears. "_Mon Dieu._ I have now betrayed everyone I've ever cared about. Oh God…" She buried her face in her hands, her entire body shaking with sobs. "I'm a terrible person, Er-Erik. I d-deserved what I got."

"Don't," Erik choked finally, unable to take any more. He had sat silently, watching her as a violent whirlwind of emotions roared within him. Now he could take no more. He had been sure that he was the most miserable human being alive after Christine had left him… that he had been the one suffering unbearably these past few days after her return. Christ, how could he have been so _blind_?

Christine curled her knees up to her chest and buried her face in them, her shoulders rising and falling as she wept. Erik fought back tears of his own as he slowly scooted closer to her and placed a hand on her back.

"Christine," he whispered brokenly, gently massaging her tensed, shaking muscles. She looked up at him through glistening eyes before closing the gap between them, grasping his shirt in her trembling fingers and burying her face in the crook of his neck. He cradled her head and closed his eyes, wrapping his free arm snugly around her. His stomach was doing somersaults inside him, twisting itself in knots as he waited for her to pull away…

_You are a fool and an idiot_, his conscience snarled for the umpteenth time that week. _Leave now before she hurts you again!_

Seconds passed, then minutes, as Christine continued to cling to him, weeping into his chest. Finally Erik felt some of the tension drain from his muscles, and despite the warning bells in his head, he allowed himself to hope. She did not flinch away from his touch— rather, she seemed to welcome it, melting against him as he rubbed her back. She molded to his body, every curve of her form fitting flawlessly against his. He burrowed his face in her hair, unable to resist placing a gentle kiss on the top of her curly head. Christine sniffled and whimpered softly, but her sobs momentarily ceased, and she snuggled a little closer to him.

Erik swallowed hard, his pulse quickening. Was she giving him permission to…?

He pulled away just far enough to look into her eyes. Two soft, trusting brown pools greeted him. Hardly breathing, he brushed his lips against her temple. Christine's eyes fluttered closed, her lips parting slightly. He very nearly lost control at her reaction, but managed to restrain himself from going too quickly and frightening her. Emboldened by her silent consent, he kissed his way slowly down her salty cheek, pausing at the spot where her jaw met her neck. She shivered as he nuzzled the delicate flesh, his breath soft and warm as he basked in her sweet scent.

"Christine," he murmured longingly against her skin. Any barriers she had built against him seemed to collapse in that instant. Before he knew what was happening, her fingers were entwined in his hair and her soft lips were on his. His heart skipped a beat as he stared down at her, her closed eyes just millimeters from his. It was just like the last time… her lips were delicious and full as they probed his, but this time, the Vicomte did not stand beside them, forcing her into Erik's arms.

_This is too easy,_ the logical side of his mind insisted pessimistically. _She's toying with you, manipulating you. She wants something. Certainly she's not kissing you out of…of LOVE… _

_No. This is her choice. She wants this. She wants _me.

A single tear slipped down his cheek as he cupped her face, deepening her proffered kiss and pulling her tighter against him. He whispered her name into her mouth and she moaned deep in her throat, her warm tongue inching forward to slide between his lips. He opened instantly to her, all other senses dissolving in the taste of her tongue. He shyly began to make use of his own, dipping hesitantly into Christine's mouth. Her soft sighs urged him on, and he gradually probed deeper, exploring every last curve and crevice. She whimpered and quickly rearranged her limbs, locking her elbows around the back of Erik's head and reclining back on the bed, pulling him down to lay between her legs.

He gasped at the sensation of being so close to her, every nerve igniting as he pinned her to the bed. He was partially excited by the fact that he could do anything— she was perfectly helpless, her mind and body malleable to his every whim; but he was also deeply concerned for her— though she showed no signs of discomfort, he was afraid of crushing her beneath his greater body weight. As a compromise of sorts, he propped himself up on his elbows, and when Christine opened her mouth to object he smiled, smothering her lips with his before she could protest.

Their breathing grew ragged as they established a rhythm of thrusts between their tongues, losing themselves in the kiss. Christine was an expert at finding the spots which drove him mad, eliciting moans of pleasure from deep within his chest, but he was hesitant to try anything too bold for fear of making a fool of himself; each swirl and stroke of his tongue was an experiment, and he was terrified of blundering or hurting her. The last thing he needed was to be compared to and fall short of her remembrance of the Vicomte. Gradually, however, she managed to break down his barriers, the occasional, gentle arch of her hips encouraging him to push on. What had once been a gentle, comforting kiss picked up speed, growing almost frantic as their pent-up passions finally broke free. Soon Erik was so lost in her he could hardly decipher where he ended and she began. He was vaguely aware of the burning sensation growing within him, pressing upwards and outwards against Christine's warm flesh, but he paid it no heed until she wrapped her legs around his waist, rocking her hips instinctively against his. A primal, almost animalistic urge grew within him to take her that very second. He responded impulsively, grinding against her. Christine broke their kiss, tilting her head back to gasp for air. Unable to stop, Erik crushed his lips hungrily against her exposed neck, alternately nipping at and lathing the soft flesh. Christine's hands traveled down to his lower back, clawing at his spine in a vain attempt to draw him more tightly against her. Her breathing came faster and heavier as her fingers slipped beneath his shirt, hastily tugging it up to his shoulders.

Erik parted reluctantly with her skin to allow her to slip the shirt over his head, taking the opportunity to return to her swollen lips. This time he did not hesitate to delve deep within her mouth, consumed by desire. The only thing separating his bare skin from hers was a thin white chemise; he could feel every curve and dip of her strong dancer's body beneath him. It was too much to resist. Before he knew it, his hands were at the ties of her nightgown, fumbling frantically to free her. At last, _at last_, she would be his…

He froze at the thought, every last muscle in his body stiffening in shock. No… this was too much, too fast… she had just confided her fears in him of betraying her husband, and here he was, baiting her into bed not ten minutes later. He pulled almost violently away from her, disentangling his limbs from hers and wrenching his tongue from her mouth. He scrambled awkwardly to his feet, wiping his lips with the back of his wrist and shaking his head.

"Erik," Christine moaned huskily, propping herself on her elbows and extending her hand once again. "Please…"

"No," he insisted with much more conviction than he felt, trying desperately to ignore the wounded expression on her face. "Not like this, Christine."

It took every fiber of willpower in his being to rip his gaze from hers and stride out of the room.

**A/N: WAIT! Give me a head start. –runs about two miles away- Okay… GO! –runs away screaming from bloodthirsty readers- **

**-calls over shoulder- But you can't kill me yet! I might be tortured, beaten, and duct taped to my keyboard, but I still have plenty of chapters to write. This isn't the end of the E/C fluff— believe me. If you ask very, VERY nicely, it might even come sooner than you expect… **


	16. Glass

**A/N: This chapter went in a completely different direction than I had originally planned, but fear not, oh fluff-pursuers! There are plenty of sweet little E/C moments in this chappie. :D **

It took Christine all of eight seconds to get her bearings and tear across the room, hot on Erik's trail. She gripped the stone arch of her bedroom's entrance, staring down incredulously at him. He was perched on the edge of the organ bench, his shoulders and head hunched over as he pounded out his torment on the ivory keys. Christine hissed through her teeth; no matter how many times she heard him play, she was continually amazed by his ability to translate raw emotion into music. The sharp chords he played now battered her spirit, drilling through nerve, flesh, and bone. She lost herself in the torturous music as easily as she had lost herself in Erik— there was honestly very little difference. Sucking in a few deep breaths, she balled her hands into fists and strode determinedly over to where he sat, purposely ignoring her.

"Erik, please look at me."

He merely hammered more fiercely on the keys, his green eyes cold and empty as he stared straight ahead. She reached out a hand and placed it tentatively on his shoulder, feeling very much as if she were prodding a ravenous, petulant lion. The muscles beneath her hand tensed immediately and his eyes snapped shut, but otherwise Erik gave no reaction to her touch. Christine frowned, slowly lowering herself onto the bench next to him. She studied his stony features for a moment before her eyes shifted to his hands. Even as he played an aria of overt torture, his fingers moved with an unmistakable grace over the keys, almost as if he were caressing every note, carefully molding each one specifically to suit his purpose. She sat in silence, watching him play as an emotion suspiciously close to jealousy grew within her; she desperately tried not to think about the fact that just moments ago, those hands had worked similar magic on her bare skin…

"Did I do something wrong?" she asked quietly, almost sure he couldn't hear her over the throbbing of the music. She was mildly surprised when his fingers faltered, hovering just above the keys. His eyes opened slowly and she looked away, feeling like an impatient child for having interrupted his passionate work.

"I don't wish to discuss it." Dread gripped her chest at his icy tone. The impenetrable shield of nonchalance had settled over him once again. Oncoming tears burned the back of her throat, and she swallowed twice in a vain attempt to keep them at bay. She had just poured her heart out to him, unveiling her deepest fears and regrets. His comfort had been welcome—needed. She had at last rediscovered the mindless bliss she had always associated with her Angel of Music; she had been more than happy to lose herself in Erik's drugging kiss. But the enchantment had been harshly and crudely cut off without explanation, leaving her body and soul yearning. She had worked hard to peel off the layers of Erik's emotional mask, and for a fleeting moment he had been open to her, vulnerable and human. Now his guard was firmly in place, and she wanted to weep at the prospect of tearing it down again. She didn't know if she had the strength to endure this torment much longer.

She could feel his eyes singeing her cheek, but she dared not meet his gaze. A seemingly impassable chasm stretched between them, and though Erik sat within easy reach, she had never felt so alone.

Lost in thought, it took her a moment to recognize that he was playing again—a soft, mournful tune. His lips moved almost imperceptibly, and the deep, rich, resonant voice of her Angel of Music suddenly filled the air.

_'Tis the last rose of summer, left blooming alone;_

_All her lovely companions are faded and gone;_

_No flow'r of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh,_

_To reflect back blushes or give sigh for sigh_

_Too soon may I follow when friendships decay,_

_And from love's shining circle the gems drop away_

_When true hearts lie wither'd, and fond ones are flown..._

_Oh, who would inhabit this bleak world alone?_

She closed her eyes as Erik's song trickled over her parched soul, his music sealing her old wounds like a soothing balm and ripping open new ones with the excruciating accuracy of the lyrics.

His finger curled around her chin, lifting her face to his. Hesitantly she looked into his eyes, and found to her relief that his features were placid, if impassive.

"Would you like a singing lesson?"

She was more than slightly taken-aback by the suggestion, but she finally gave a single nod, watching as he turned back to the organ and began to play the same opening notes again.

"Sing the first two verses," he instructed. Christine took a deep breath, trying to ease the tense muscles of her throat and chest. Crying would not help anything. Remembering their previous lesson, she sang out clearly with his accompaniment, drawing power from her diaphragm. Erik gave a curt nod without looking at her.

"Good. You are remembering." He assumed a critical tone, lowering one eyebrow. "Watch your pitch on the 'a's. Tighten all of the vowels a bit more." He pressed his hand to the small of her back, amplifying the arch of her spine. "Let's try it in a lower key; your muscles are weak. Again."

Their lesson proceeded likewise, with Erik pausing frequently to adjust her posture and give specific directions for each syllable. Christine was partially humiliated that she had forgotten so much, but her heart thrilled as she rediscovered her love of music. Erik knew every potential note of her range, and patiently coaxed each one from her with the same meticulous attention he bestowed upon the organ. In thirty minute's time Christine had relearned how to properly control her breathing and vibrato, and as she stretched dormant muscles her voice steadily blossomed toward its previous splendor.

Finally Erik gave a decisive nod, removing his fingers from the organ keys with one final artistic flourish. "We are finished for today." His tone left no room for debate.

"Thank you," Christine said after a pause.

Erik raised an eyebrow and stood, striding wordlessly over to his desk. He sat down and took a piece of parchment from the top drawer, then dipped a quill in the black inkpot and began to write. Christine watched him curiously without moving from the organ bench. He was so vexingly secretive! She didn't ask what he was writing— if he wished her to know, he would tell her. Instead she waited patiently for him to make the first move, replaying the lesson in her head to pass the time.

Minutes ticked by unmarked before Erik raised his head and set the quill on the desk, startling Christine from her daydream.

"I'm sure you're curious as to what I've written." Christine didn't answer; it wasn't necessary. Erik beckoned for her to come and read for herself, and she complied eagerly, taking the thin sheet of yellowed paper from his hand.

She gasped softly at the first line.

_Mademoiselle Giry, _

_Contrary to popular belief, the Vicomtess de Chagny is not dead. Your dear friend temporarily resides with me in the fifth cellar of the opera house while she recovers from recent ailments and afflictions. She would immensely enjoy an afternoon of your company, though she is in no condition to travel. I therefore cordially invite you and your mother to come for tea this Thursday at four. You need not fear for your security— on my honor, you and your mother will be quite safe in my home. As a favor to Christine, please be here. _

_Yours,_

_Erik _

_P.T.O. _

_If you would kindly return my mask during your visit, I'd be much obliged._

Christine's eyes misted with grateful tears as she handed the letter back to Erik. He sealed it silently and addressed the envelope, refusing to meet her gaze.

"Oh, Erik," she sighed, shaking her head. "You never change." A smile played at the corners of her lips as she bent to place a kiss on his right cheek. She didn't dare ask if he perhaps had a different seal than the frightening red skull— even if he did, old habits died hard, and he was doing her a favor, after all. Her spirits lifted considerably at the prospect of spending an afternoon with her best friend. She had not had the pleasure of female company since she lived in the de Chagny mansion, and she hadn't seen Meg in ages, it seemed. Her eyes twinkled excitedly as Erik rose to his feet and grabbed his cloak, tucking the envelope into a hidden pocket. "Are you going to deliver it now?"

He nodded, shrugging the cloak over his shoulders. "I'll be back shortly."

Christine watched with a mixture of emotions as he disappeared into the dark catacombs, unsure of whether she wanted to laugh or cry now that he wasn't here to see her. His plan was obviously to pretend nothing had happened between them. She sighed deeply, realizing she'd have no luck trying to bring it up; she would have to wait until he was ready to discuss it. She was torn in two; her loyalty to Raoul and upbringing as a Catholic insisted that what she was doing was wrong— that she shouldn't be pining for Erik; her lonely soul objected, adamant in its yearning for a kindred spirit.

She sighed again after a moment, snapping herself from her thoughts. Meg was coming in two days! She turned a scrutinizing eye to the impossibly cluttered lair. If they were to have company, the place desperately needed a woman's touch. Trying not to think about how Erik would react to her premature exertions, she swept dutifully around the room, straightening and organizing as she went. Hundreds of papers covered the organ and surrounding floor, and she categorized them according to composition before labeling and stacking them in alphabetical order. When her task was complete, the sheet music tucked in Erik's top desk drawer, she replaced the dust covers over the broken mirrors and began to carefully pick up the shards of broken glass. When her hands were full of the little crystalline pieces she climbed slowly to her feet and went in search of a dustbin.

"What are you doing?"

Erik's voice startled her, and she clenched her open hands instinctively. She cried out in pain as the shards cut into her palms and fingers, warm blood trickling everywhere. Erik was at her side almost instantly, clasping her wrists and holding her bleeding hands up for inspection. She whimpered, trying to fight down tears of pain.

"I'm sorry— look at the mess I made! _Mon Dieu_, I'm so clumsy." She tried to laugh at herself, but her tears betrayed her. Erik said nothing, but led her by the wrists to sit in an antique armchair. He silently turned and disappeared into the bathroom, coming out moments later holding a small porcelain washbasin. He paused in the kitchen area and filled the basin with water from the kettle before returning to Christine. He set the small white tub in her lap and gently lifted her hands.

His eyes were unreadable as he said softly, "This will hurt." Christine nodded, gritting her teeth. Nevertheless, she let out a cry of pain as he dipped her hands in the hot water, pinning them down as she struggled impulsively. Her blood stained the water bright red, but the initial agony began to dull slightly. Erik's gaze shifted from her hands to her face, and she met it tearfully. "Try not to move. Let the skin soak until it's tender, and the glass will come out more easily."

"Alright," she breathed, desperately trying to conceal her tears.

Erik surprised her for the umpteenth time that day when he whispered, "You aren't weak for feeling pain, Christine; you're human. Don't be afraid to cry." Her eyes flooded with the tears she'd been fighting since he wrenched from her embrace.

"Why?" she asked simply, knowing he would understand her unspoken thoughts. Erik concentrated on her hands, gently probing the flesh around the wounds. Several moments of silence passed before he answered.

"You weren't yourself," he said with a shrug. Christine frowned.

"I knew what I was doing."

"But you weren't in control," he countered sharply. He glanced at her quickly before returning his gaze to the tub, and his voice softened. "If you had been, it would have been you who pulled away. That's why."

The urge to argue her point pressed on Christine's chest, but the finality of his tone clearly signaled that the conversation had ended. He gently took the backs of her hands and lifted them from the water, studying each shard of glass keenly. A few of the bloody pieces had come free in the basin, and floated on the surface of the red water. The rest were lodged deeply in the flesh, and he began to pluck them carefully out one by one. Hot tears of pain streamed down Christine's cheeks, and she bit down on her tongue until a metallic taste filled her mouth. Erik still refused to look at her, flinching at every cry that escaped her lips, but he managed to keep his hand steady as he removed the splinters.

By the time the task was done Christine could no longer feel her hands— or what was left of them; the flesh of her palms was little more than bloody pulp when he removed the last shard. Her entire body trembled with suppressed sobs, and frown lines seemed to have permanently creased Erik's brow. They did not disappear as he wiped his hands on his pants and moved the basin to the floor beside Christine's chair. She did not object as he slid one arm beneath her knees and wrapped the other around her back, lifting her into his strong arms in one fluid movement. She held her shaking hands in front of her, resting her dizzy head against his bare shoulder as he carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed.

She sighed as he took a step backwards, staring wearily up at him. "This is pathetic. I'm nauseated just looking at myself."

"Welcome to my world," Erik teased humorlessly. Christine merely shook her head, lacking the strength to contradict him. She watched as he bent slowly to pick up the shirt she had pried from his chest not an hour ago, her eyes widening as he ripped off the sleeves at their seams.

"What are you—?"

He tossed aside what was left of the shirt and knelt beside her bed, taking her hand in his. Slowly and gently, he began to wrap one of the strips of fabric around the bloody mess.

"I don't have bandages—"

"Oh, you don't have to—"

They both paused awkwardly and exchanged fleeting smiles before looking back down at Christine's hands.

"This is my fault," Erik said, his smile fading. "I'm so sorry."

"You didn't see," Christine insisted. "It was no one's fault but my own. I was foolish to try to pick them up with my bare hands."

"What were you doing?"

She swallowed, bracing herself for another temperamental outburst. "Cleaning. I just thought with Meg and Madame Giry coming…"

He pressed a finger lightly to her lips. "You didn't have to. I would have done it before they arrived." The frown line reappeared between his brows. "You are ill, Christine. Please remember that. I know it's frustrating, but you must rest until you're well again. Even if you feel 'fine,' your body is too weak for such exertions."

"All right," Christine sighed, laying her head down in weary defeat. Her eyelids grew heavy with the combination of her lightheadedness and the soft bed. As they slowly fluttered closed she felt Erik's hand slip from hers and grasped desperately for it, forgetting her wounds. She gasped as excruciating pain sliced through her nerves, and Erik stopped immediately.

"Don't leave me," she pleaded, her voice barely a whisper. "Please… stay with me until I fall asleep?" Her stomach flipped at the prospect of facing another nightmare. It was childish, really, but somehow she was certain that Erik's presence would keep the haunting dreams away.

He hesitated, but as a warm tear trickled down her cheek he sighed and nodded his consent, perching on the edge of the pewter bed frame. The pain gradually ebbed, allowing Christine to relax. As darkness pressed in on her senses, she was vaguely aware of Erik's voice, singing softly to her.

_Too soon may I follow when friendships decay,_

_And from love's shining circle the gems drop away_

_When true hearts lie wither'd, and fond ones are flown..._

_Oh, who would inhabit this bleak world alone? _

**A/N: Aww! Does anyone else want to huggle Erik at the moment? Hahaha.**

**Ye gads! Sooo many reviews for that last chapter! Evidently you guys like fluff? –giggles- Hey, me too! More's a-comin', darlings, I promise! **

**-diiiees of laughter- OMG, you guys had me clutching the desk to keep myself from toppling out of the computer chair! I must be the luckiest authoress on the site… more people said "Oh, that's okay! It was totally in-character, great job!" than "I'M GOING TO RIP YOUR HEAD OFF!" Hahaha –glomps- You guys are so sweet and understanding! –fawns over you- I'll try not to toy with you**_** too**_** much after this, okay?**

**One last thing, and then I swear I'll shut up! Are there any other Giry fans out there who are excited about bringing these ladies in, or is it just me? –squee!-**

**Please, please, pretty pretty please review for me! **


	17. Deception

**A/N: For those of you who read this story merely for the E/C fluff, I SIGH DRAMATICALLY AND SHAKE MY HEAD AT YOU! (And in my heart of hearts, secretly understand) BUT. And yes, there's always a "but." This is a rather important chapter, and these characters will be VITAL to the plot in the upcoming chapters, so I implore you to be patient. They're not going away. **

**For those of you who expressed interest in Emily, Charlie and The Mysterious Stranger (wow, he sounds like a superhero!), enjoy this chapter. It's a rather important one. **

**Thank you so very much to my beta, Marianne Brandon, who co-wrote this chapter with me! Couldn't have done it without you! –huggles-**

Charlie rolled off of her with a toothy grin, buttoning his pants as he kicked his legs over the side of the bed. Emily still panted softly, her skin glistening with sweat, as he rose to his feet and pulled a plaid shirt over his head.

"You're worth every penny," he said huskily.

"That supposed to be a compliment?" she asked saucily, rolling her dark eyes at his retreating back. "I thought my offer was pretty damn cheap." His gruff laughter boomed throughout the small house, and she flinched, biting back the urge to quiet him; their guest was still sleeping just down the hall.

A warm blush crept up her cheeks at the thought. She felt inexplicably filthy at the thought of what she had just done in the same house as the young stranger, and she pulled the cotton sheet a bit higher over her bare form.

"I'm going to go back out to work," Charlie called from the living room. "The boy's still out. Let's just pray he'll pass before I get back, eh?" He clucked in the back of his throat and grabbed a spare coat from a hook near the door. "Can you cook, kid?"

_Bloody hell, now I have to be a cook, too? _"I s'pose. Depends what you want me to make."

"Mashed 'taters and butter and maybe some carrots or somethin'. I'll broil us up some fish when I get back."

"Little cocky soundin', ain't it?" _I'd better be earning more for this_.

His laughter echoed as the front door clattered shut and he left Emily in peace. She fell back against the pillows with a groan, clutching the blankets to her chest. For a moment she simply lay there, staring up at the ceiling. Her head still spun slightly from her exertions, her skin flushed beneath the damp sheets while internally she remained cool and surprisingly tranquil. At age thirteen she had taught herself to mentally shut down each time a man touched her— a talent which had stayed with her throughout the years, making her job nearly effortless. Sex had become second nature to her, each rehearsed movement and feigned cry of ecstasy as intrinsic to her as sleeping, eating, and breathing.

She waited until the haze cleared from her mind before climbing to her feet, peering shyly down the hall to make sure the stranger was still sound asleep. When she was positive he wasn't watching her, she dropped the sheet and quickly put her clothes back on.

_Since when have you been so concerned about modesty in front of a man? This one can't even see you, and probably won't even live to do so!_

She sighed, running her fingers through her matted hair as she strode down the hall, stopping in front of the unconscious boy. A frown creased her brow as she knelt beside him; his breathing had grown even more labored and raspy in the past fifteen minutes— it sounded as if dry bones were rattling in his chest with every shallow gasp for air. She brushed a lock of blonde hair behind his ear, her eyes drooping with concern.

"You don't sound so good, m'lord," she whispered, skirting her fingertips along his firm jawbone. Sighing deeply, she shifted her weight and settled into a more comfortable sitting position, resting her arm on the edge of the couch and laying her chin atop it. "Truth be told, I ain't doin' so well meself." She continued to stroke his soft tresses, twisting the golden hair around her fingers. "Can't say it's as bad as you're farin'."

"Charlie saved your life, an' bless 'im for that, but…" She shuddered. "You 'ave no idea, do you? You look too proper to even think it. But I gotta earn my keep, so…I see a different side to 'im, and…it ain't such a pleasant thing. Though I shouldn't be talkin' about such things with a gentleman like you, should I?"

"You certainly are an 'andsome one," she murmured absently, the corner of her mouth lifting in a small smile. "Prob'ly have a fine young lass waitin' at home. Lucky girl." Her smile faded, concern once again dominating her features. "I'm prayin' you pull through this, m'lord. Your lady's prob'ly sore as 'ell without you. Seems you've got enough fight in ya to get you through those waters, so you must be a brave one too." She pursed her lips, studying his pained features for another moment before climbing to her feet again.

Drawing in a deep breath, she took the rag from his forehead and stepped over to the kettle, sprinkling it with clean, hot water.

Her heart skipped a beat when she turned back to him. The boy was perfectly still— too still.

All the blood seemed to rush to her head, making the room spin around her. Her breath hitched in her chest as she stood frozen in shock, the wet rag slipping from her limp fingers. With a gasp she ran to his side, bending low over his motionless body. This time no warm air brushed her ear, even when she brought it within a hair's breadth of his lips. Her chest constricted with oncoming sobs, and she shook her head vehemently.

"No," she breathed, her eyes wide as saucers. "No!" She clasped his chin in one hand, tilting his head back. Tears ran hot tracks down her cheeks as his head bobbed limply in her grasp, and her lower lip began to tremble uncontrollably. "Breathe, m'lord… please… don't give up! You got this far…Keep goin'…come on…" She watched in horror as his lips began to turn light blue, the color slowly draining from his cheeks.

Her mind reeled as she watched him fade helplessly. There had to be _something_ she could do… something to keep him alive…

Suddenly it hit her. She eyed his open lips for the briefest of moments before sucking in a deep breath and pressing her mouth to his. A strange tingling sensation rippled through her as she blew down his throat as hard as she could— whereas intimate contact with men generally made her mind freeze, now she felt her blood course hotly through her veins. More than anything she wanted him to wake … for his lips and tongue to spring to life and rise to meet hers…

She yanked away when her lungs were empty, panting for air. The boy still lay motionless, and she choked on a sob, slamming her fist down on his lifeless chest. She gasped when his lungs suddenly swelled beneath her hand, his bloodshot blue eyes snapping wide open as his entire body convulsed with violent coughs.

"Holy shit!" she cried, stumbling back and falling hard on her rear end. The boy's hacking coughs grew in volume and intensity until mucus coated the fist he pressed to his mouth. Emily could do nothing but watch in shock as he wheezed for breath, his eyes darting wildly around the room before settling on her.

"_Qui êtes-vous_?" he demanded, his bare chest heaving.

"I… I'm sorry," she stammered, slowly climbing to her feet. _How did you say it in French?_ "_Je ne parle pas français._" Not exactly finishing school quality, but she'd bedded enough French tourists in her life to know at least that much.

The boy stared blankly at her for a moment before lapsing into perfect English. "I said," he panted, wiping his clean hand across his sweat-beaded brow, "Who are you?"

Her mind raced, her thoughts chasing themselves in dizzying circles through her head. She opened and closed her mouth several times, unsure of how to answer him.

"I… Emily," she managed finally. "I'm Emily." She reached for the damp cloth she had dropped earlier and reached to wipe the fluid off his hand. When he flinched at her touch, she shrank back a little and let him do it himself.

He appeared puzzled for a moment, as if he were searching his mind for a long-lost scrap of information. "Raoul," he said quietly, more to himself than to her. "My name is Raoul."

_Raoul. _Her mind played the name over and over, savoring the elegant, foreign sound. Concurrently another, more logical voice rang out confusedly, _He barely remembers his own name. What other memories were lost in the ocean's swell?_

"What…what happened to me?" he asked between coughs.

She swallowed. "You were drownin', and Charlie, my…the fisherman…'e got you out."

His eyes were calmer now as he looked around the room. If he was of noble birth, as she had guessed, the interior of this little house must have seemed perfectly squalid to him. Emily noticed he still trembled, and was suddenly grateful for something more productive to do.

"Lemme get you another blanket," she said, standing up to do so.

When she brought it to him, he was staring at her quizzically, as though trying to place her from somewhere else in his memory. Naturally, he would not remember her; he had never seen her before in his life.

A devious plan began to formulate in the back of Emily's mind, bleeding outward until it consumed her every thought. He didn't remember _anything_, she realized upon staring deeply into his confused blue eyes. This boy— _Raoul_— could remember nothing of his past…

_How ironic,_ she mused, trying to fight down a smirk. _The first man I care about, and he actually HAS no history to ignore._

What if…? Here was a man with no past, and she was a woman with no future. Suppose she invented a history for him… for both of them… would she finally be able to take the reins of her own destiny? Could this be a way for her to alter the path she had traveled since she was twelve? With Raoul, she could become a different person… a_ better _person. Often enough, she had received money for pretending, but that had been for just ten minutes, an hour, a night. This façade could take her life in a whole new direction, but if she started down this path now, there would be no opportunity to retrace her steps. If only she knew for certain what obstacles lay ahead!

She swallowed, trying unsuccessfully to fight down the conniving demon that had taken root within her. "'Ow are you feeling, my love?" The words almost caught in her chest. So many times she had used the affectionate title when trying to please an important or particularly wealthy customer, but it seemed profane, somehow, to use it now. This boy wasn't paying for her services. He was at Death's door, completely helpless. Honest concern shone from her dark eyes as she looked down at him, flawlessly masking her guilt.

"My love?" he echoed incredulously, scooting away from her with a terrified expression. "I… have… have we met?"

A pang of guilt shot through Emily's heart for taking advantage of his vulnerability, but she pointedly ignored it, calling upon her many years of acquired acting skills to bring wounded tears to her eyes.

"You… you don't remember me?" she whispered brokenly.

_Stop it, _she told herself. _This is wrong_.

_I've never done anything right in my whole life. Why should I start now?_

_You said you were tired of pretending._

Ironic, that the first time a man wanted nothing from her, she was ready to do everything in her power to _make _him want her. For the love of God, why? Men were just employment, her meal ticket, her only means of survival in this cold, cruel world. Why was this one any different? She still had a deal with Charlie, and doubtless he resented this sickly intruder. If the boy didn't die by the end of the week, Charlie would surely grow weary of his presence. And if—when—this Raoul found out who she really was, _what _she really was…what then?

_Stop now_, her conscience pleaded, making one last valiant effort to change her decided course of action._ Give it up before you've gone too far._

"I don't remember anything," he said apologetically, a tinge of panic creeping into his tone. Emily's demon cackled in triumph, spurring her forward with a frightening force. She hardly recognized her own voice as she gently took his hand and sat on the couch beside him.

"Raoul," she breathed, running her hand along his feverish cheek. "Raoul, my love… it's me. It's your Emily. Your…" She choked on a sob, a single tear running down her pale cheek. Throwing caution to the wind, she plunged headfirst into the shadowed abyss before her. "…Your wife."

**A/N: DUN DUN DUNNN! Okay. As much as I love you people, you can no longer deny that this is Raoul. As in the Vicomte. As in de Chagny. As in Christine's supposedly-dead husband. Tadaa! GOTCHA! You didn't REALLY think I'd kill him off that quickly, didja? No. Come on. I love Raouliekums as much as the next girl. :D**

**-strokes chin maliciously- To have him meddle in the E/C affairs, or to have him totally forget everything that happened and live happily ever after with Emily? … Meddle… Stay out of it… Meddle… Stay out of it… **

**MWAHAHAHAAAAAA! Better review and tell me how much you love/hate me for this. –beams and disappears in a whirl of her cloak and a burst of flame-**


	18. Unleashed

**A/N: I'm so sorry this took so long. I loathe fillers with a passion. –sighs- But you knew that. Anywho, the first half of this is all very-necessary filler, and the second half… -smiles- Oh, you'll see. **

He could have watched her sleep for the rest of his days, and it would not have been long enough. Freed from the burdens of consciousness, Christine's features held an innocent peace that made Erik's heart swell with love. Without the need to keep his own emotional mask intact, his eyes softened, the cold shell around his heart melting in the wake of her beauty. He traced the outline of her jaw with his finger while he stared unblinkingly at her sleeping form. A stray curl fell across her face as she stirred in her sleep, and Erik smiled, tucking it behind her ear. Resisting the urge to lay down beside her, he pressed a light kiss to her temple, his lips caressing her skin as lightly as butterfly wings.

Much as he hated to admit it, there were many more productive tasks that needed to be finished while Christine slept. He climbed to his feet with a sigh and strode over to the curtain, casting one final, longing glance at his sleeping angel before stepping into the main room.

Christine had done an excellent job of organizing his sheet music; the lair already looked twice as clean as when he had left it to deliver his invitation to the Girys. There was, however, a new mess of blood and glass to be picked up, along with a hundred other chores he knew he couldn't possibly accomplish in two days. The mob had left his lair in shambles, and his own neglect had begun to show considerably; a thick layer of dust coated everything in the room, most of his furniture was broken or severely damaged, the velvet curtains needed to be washed… let alone the fact that he had no pastries, sugar, or cream for tea, and it probably wouldn't hurt to purchase a new set of chinaware.

His head began to throb at the seemingly impossible chore list before him. He grumbled under his breath as he set to work on the lair, cursing himself for picking such an early date for the Girys to come.

_This isn't about you. This is about making Christine happy and comfortable down here._

Using the thought as fuel, he worked steadily and silently for the next four hours, dusting, sweeping, repairing, discarding, straightening, patching, and scrubbing every last inch of the main room. Finally he stood back, his hands on his hips, surveying the product of his labor. The lair hadn't been so clean since the night he first brought Christine down. Wiping the back of his wrist across his sweaty brow, he exhaled deeply and nodded his approval. He peeked through the curtain to make sure Christine was still sound asleep before walking into his own bedroom. It was by far the simplest room in his home, furnished only with a coffin and a black armoire. He opened the doors to his wardrobe and surveyed the contents momentarily. Laundry had not been on his priority list during his months of solitude following "the incident"… his choices of attire were therefore rather limited. Finally he settled on a loose white tunic and the brown trousers he had worn during _Don Juan Triumphant_.

He changed quickly, throwing his dirty clothes in a heap by the coffin. Feeling much more comfortable, he stepped back into the main room and retrieved his spare mask from a plaster mold. The white leather felt foreign and stifling against the right side of his face, which, until that morning, had been in the open air. He scratched irritably at it, adjusting it several times before giving up with a sigh. He would have to get accustomed to it again, he supposed; it would be necessary during the Girys' visit.

Shrugging his cloak over his shoulders, he eyed the room one last time while chewing absently on the inside of his cheek. The place was passable, he decided, if far from company-ready. He plucked a small, heavy velvet bag from his safe and placed it in his cloak pocket before hurrying off in the direction of César's stall.

The black stallion tossed his head as his master approached, giving a soft whinny in greeting. Erik's eyes crinkled in a half-smile, and he gave his horse's neck a sound pat before wordlessly tacking him up. The squeak of leather echoed in the catacombs as Erik leapt gracefully into the saddle, taking up the reins and pressing his heels into César's warm sides. The horse obediently trotted forward, chomping on his bit as they clattered out onto Rue Scribe.

"Easy," Erik murmured, stroking the stallion's sleek neck before urging him into a slow canter. Winter had come late that year, and stretched on far beyond its usual course, bringing freezing rain and sleet when buds should have been blooming on the fruit trees that lined the boulevards. Even now, at the end of March, his breath appeared fleetingly in a faint white cloud before vanishing. His heart clenched at the thought of Christine's trembling form— she was probably freezing down in the lair if it was this cold aboveground.

_Firewood, _he noted as he steered his horse through little-used alleys. _Cream, sugar, pastries, chinaware, and firewood._

He repeated the shopping list mentally as he rode, listing one item with each canter stride. Finally he tugged the reins lightly and stopped César outside of a small farmer's market. Several tents and booths had been set up despite the dreary weather, though there were very few customers shopping amongst them. Old, rugged-looking peasants huddled behind their produce, chatting quietly with one another. They hardly paid any notice as Erik tied up his horse at a hitching post and began to browse. He quickly found a dairy booth with several pitchers of frothy white cream and a few sticks of fresh butter, and bought both with only a few murmured words of haggling. A few of the peasants took note of his purchase and broke away from their conversations to offer him their own products. Avoiding their pleading gazes, he selected three large croissants, a jar of homemade blackberry preserves, two dozen shortbread cookies, a pound of white sugar, and a small cheesecake, accepting the prices without question. Business did not seem to be going well for these poor people, and he could certainly afford to pay them whatever price they asked, however outrageous.

Erik attached the burlap grocery bags to César's saddle, nodding to himself. He counted the remaining coins silently before mounting and riding off toward O'Reilly's office.

The stout Irishman looked rather unhappy to see him, Erik noted grimly as he stepped through the door ten minutes later.

"M'sieur Erik! I weren't expectin' you for another…"

"Two days," Erik finished swiftly, fixing him with a cold stare. "Yes, I'm aware. I was… in the neighborhood."

"Right." O'Reilly scratched his neck, averting his gaze. "Well, I don't quite know what news to give you… my men are workin'—"

"As fast as they can," Erik said monotonously, a tinge of aggravation creeping into his voice. "I am beginning to believe I could accomplish the task myself for much less than I'm paying your so-called _competent_ workers."

The Irishman laughed nervously. "It's been rainin' cats and dogs, m'sieur. Everythin' takes just a wee bit longer than…"

"I am not paying you to make excuses." He took two steps closer until he was close enough to reach out and touch O'Reilly. "The job _will_ be finished by the end of the month."

O'Reilly's jaw hardened. "I'll do what I can, m'sieur."

"You will do what I _say_," Erik corrected. "Or I will be forced to ride out there every morning and make sure the men truly are working to their fullest abilities. And if I find out otherwise…" He took yet another step closer, allowing his towering presence and venomous glare to complete the thought.

O'Reilly shrank back slightly. "Understood, m'sieur."

"Good." Erik retreated a few steps, watching in amusement as the Irishman slumped a bit in relief. He reminded him starkly of the opera's managers; a little intimidation went a long way. Fortunately, Erik had ample experience in that field. His eyes roamed the office before settling on the roaring fire in the hearth. He watched O'Reilly with his peripheral vision while he dug in his cloak and produced the sack of coins. "I'll give you twenty francs for firewood."

The Irishman's eyes glittered hungrily as he snatched the purse and nodded. "There's a pile out back. Take as much as you want."

Nodding tersely, Erik brushed past him and through the back door. He found the stack of timber piled in a makeshift shed, and gathered as much as his arms could hold. Without so much as glancing at O'Reilly, he strode back through the office and into the street. César waited patiently for his return, and he loaded the wood onto the horse's flank, using the Punjab lasso to secure it to the saddle. Already the sun had begun its descent, and the gray streets grew dimmer by the minute. Deciding to save the chinaware expedition for another day, Erik swung his right leg over César's back and headed for home as quickly as possible.

Christine was still sleeping when he returned, purchases in hand. He watched her silently from the curtain for a few moments before remembering that the food needed to be kept cool. Sighing deeply, he crossed the main room and placed the pastries, butter, and jam in the small icebox he had carved into the stone wall. His stomach gave an insistent growl as he placed the cookies and sugar into the nearly-bare pantry; he hadn't eaten in a few days, he realized. Sneering at his weakness, he shut the cupboard doors and turned to place the bottle of cream in the frigid pool of filtered water. Before Christine's return, he had gone for weeks at a time with nothing but music to sustain him— he would not allow her presence to weaken him physically; she had already taken quite enough of a toll on his emotional defenses.

Humming quietly to himself, Erik tucked a new piece of firewood beneath the kettle and began to prepare a broth with chicken bouillon and chopped green onions— Christine's favorite. When all of the ingredients were assembled in the black pot he allowed them to stew, wiping his hands on his trousers and trotting over to the curtain.

He was slightly surprised to find Christine up and about, her bed neatly made, busily cleaning the bedroom. She glanced up at him and smiled sleepily as he stepped into the room.

"Hello Erik," she said, a smile lifting her pink lips. "You don't happen to have a mop of some sort, do you?"

He paused for a moment, trying to get a grasp on her words. Beneath the thin cotton robe she wore, her white silk nightgown hugged every curve of her body alluringly. Erik swallowed, trying desperately to tear his eyes away, and managed to stutter, "Uh… no. No, I don't… don't believe so."

She pursed her lips and tapped one finger against her chin thoughtfully. "Hmm. Might there still be one in the janitor's closet upstairs?"

It took Erik even longer to reply the second time. "Perhaps." Christine raised an eyebrow at him, smiling amusedly. "Would… you… like me… to check?"

"If you'd be so kind," she replied sweetly, turning her gaze to the mess near her wardrobe. "I just want to clean this up before Meg and her mother get here."

Erik's wits returned to him in an instant. He strode quickly to her side, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Don't concern yourself with cleaning. You are supposed to be _resting_, remember…"

"I've _been_ resting," she sighed. "I'm sick of lying around while you do everything. I want to help." She pouted charmingly, looking every bit the part of a spoiled child. "Please, Erik? Let me help you."

He could not refuse her wide, imploring doe eyes. With a heavy sigh he nodded, and a broad smile once again lit up Christine's face. She awarded him a brief kiss on his unmasked cheek, and he turned away to hide the emotions that swelled within him.

"I'll… go see if I can find a mop for you."

She took a step to follow him. "May I come?"

Erik pondered the idea for a moment before shaking his head. "No. It's cold outside. I don't know what kind of riffraff might be taking shelter upstairs. I would feel more comfortable knowing you're safe down here."

Christine sighed. "All right. Is there anything else you'd like me to do while you're gone?"

"Rest," he insisted relentlessly.

She rolled her brown eyes, giving a half-grin. "Laundry it is, then." He ignored her, leaving the room without a backward glance.

_The woman is almost as stubborn as me, _he mused as he poled the gondola across the lake. Fortunately Christine showed no signs of relapse, and she was recovering much more rapidly than the daroga had predicted. Erik's insistence that she rest was more of a power struggle than an actual concern; doing simple chores around the house wouldn't worsen her condition. Certainly if she could manage to kiss him so fervently, she was perfectly capable of washing a few clothes…

His cheeks burned at the thought, and he tried desperately to shake it away. He had done everything in his power to erase the incident from existence, but ignoring it only seemed to frustrate Christine and encourage questioning. Damn it all, she was a mourning widow! He hadn't killed the Vicomte, much as he would have liked to, and yet he was made to suffer once again for a wild twist of fate. Desire for Christine was steadily eating away at him like a potent acid, but for the moment his self-control reigned supreme. Lord only knew how long it would last before he broke again.

By the time the gondola's hull bumped the far shore of the lake, Erik was so immersed in his thoughts he hardly registered his movements as he tied the boat to the dock and began the long trek up the slick, winding incline to Christine's old dressing room.

Memories lingered in every nook and cranny of the opera house. The stone gargoyles seemed to jeer at him as he made his way up through the cellars, mocking the pathetic, so-called Opera Ghost who fell from power over the young chorus girl who stole his heart and crushed it in her petite hand. Growling savagely, he broke into a run, nearly slipping on the mossy ramp.

_I'm going mad,_ he thought, squeezing his head between his hands. He could almost hear the echoing shrieks of the audience members coming from the auditorium… feel the thick smoke burning his lungs… hear Christine's shuddering sobs and pleas for mercy as he dragged her _down that path into darkness deep as hell_…

He ran the rest of the way through the catacombs, stopping only upon reaching Christine's dressing room. Panting for breath, he leaned his face against the mirror, his breath fogging the two-way glass. His fingers groped in the pitch darkness for the release to the mirror, and the frame gave a rusted squeak as it slid open.

Erik's mouth fell slightly agape at the sight that greeted him. The dressing room had been ravaged by the fire; the wallpaper and furniture were blackened, melted candle wax and broken glass covered the floor, and a thick coat of gray ash coated everything in the room.

He swallowed a few times as he took a tentative step through the mirror, a deep ache settling in his stomach.

"What have I done?" he whispered. His opera house… his magnificent, opulent opera house, had been reduced to charred ruins by his own hand. He knew the fire had caused extensive damage, but somehow the sight of Christine's tarnished dressing room— the site of many mutually cherished singing lessons and their first physical encounter— hit a painful chord deep within him.

With a heavy heart, he stepped gingerly across the room and through the empty stone archway where a wooden door once stood. Despite the overwhelming aroma of fire and ash, the air was bitterly cold in the drafty hallways. Clutching his cloak tighter around his shoulders, Erik wandered aimlessly through the remains of the opera house, his original intent for his trip drowned out by overpowering reminiscence.

As the wintry air chilled him to the bone and his very heartstrings seemed to stretch beyond endurance, he began to long for the warmth of Christine's embrace and the mindless ecstasy of her kiss. His pride and conscience balked at the idea, however, and another destructive yearning filled its place.

During his months of torment after Christine's departure, he had sought solace in many a bottle of whiskey. Never before had he thought to drown his pain in alcohol— there had been other forms of release, equal in their depravity. Countless scars along his left arm told of his deadly morphine addiction… followed shortly after by his brief habit of cutting the flesh itself. For awhile he had thought the physical pain might detract from his inner torment, but it had been a false hope; needless to say, the vice had quickly died out. Music, he had learned over time, was the best remedy for his broken soul.

_But in a case like this, music would do me very little good_, he reasoned. Slinking back in his cowl, he stepped out into the open night air. A frosty breeze rustled through his cloak as he walked, causing goose bumps to shoot up along his limbs. He broke into a jog both to keep warm and reach his destination quicker, keeping his eyes lowered and one hand clenched tightly around the Punjab lasso.

Claudette's bar and tavern was certainly not in one of the more esteemed neighborhoods in Paris. Surrounded by a brothel on its left and a series of decadent apartments on its right, it was almost constantly filled with drunken customers, bustling with activity, gambling, fist-fights, pestering whores, dancing, slurred laughter, and illegal dealings. Conveniently for Erik, there were never any questions asked; no one in the pub would glance twice at his black garb and masked face.

Brushing indignantly past a gaudy redhead who pitched a "special price" at him for an evening of her company, he slipped in the door unnoticed and slunk to an open table in a dim corner. After a few moments he managed to catch the bartender's eye, and raised a finger, jerking his head pointedly at the whiskey. The bartender nodded his understanding and grabbed a large pewter mug from a shelf behind him, filled it to the brim with whiskey, and sent a scantily clad blonde girl over to him.

"Here you are, monsieur," she said in a gratingly high-pitched voice. "Anything else I can do for you?" She sat on the edge of his table, flashing him a bit of thigh suggestively.

Erik fixed her with a cold glare and took a swig from the mug. His eyes watered a little as the whiskey burned its way down his throat. "Yes," he snapped irritably. "Get off my table."

The blonde pouted at him, jutting her lower lip out like a toddler. Somehow the expression wasn't nearly as becoming on her as Christine. Erik's glare followed her back to the bar before he shifted his attention elsewhere.

Two middle-aged, red-faced, balding men came over from the bar carrying pints of ale, settling at the table next to him with satisfied grunts. Erik watched them disinterestedly for a few moments as they clinked their glasses together and took deep gulps of their drinks. Erik looked down into his mug, swirling the whiskey around before taking another sip.

He nearly spat it out all over the table at the conversation that struck up amongst the two men beside him.

"So, Michel, you hear anything more about the whole de Chagny scandal?"

Erik's gaze snapped immediately over to the men. He stared unabashedly, just barely managing to swallow the burning whiskey down.

The men didn't seem to notice. The one named Michel finished his mouthful of ale, nodding his head vigorously. "Alicia Leland came over this morning to chat with my wife. Spent two hours talking about it, I swear to God."

"What's happening with that?"

Michel shrugged one shoulder. "The Vicomtess is still missing. Hiding out, the gendarmes suspect. They've got Scotland Yard on the case now too, scouring Britain for any sign of her."

"Hmm." The other man grunted, taking another drink. "They still think she did it then?"

"Guilty as sin," Michel confirmed. "Who can blame her?"

"Not me. Hell, I'd've murdered him for that much money."

"What about the baby?"

The man shrugged. "Again… for 20 million francs?"

"Point taken," Michel concurred. "Couldn't very well leave an heir, could she?"

"Smart girl."

"A rich girl, too. And they don't have a body to prove she did it, even if they do find her."

"I thought they said—"

"They did. Wasn't his body. His brother made a mistake, apparently. The corpse they found wasn't wearing the de Chagny ring."

Erik's jaw hung wide open, his insides twisting themselves into hard, painful knots. This could not be happening… certainly it was all a dream…

"_Merde_. So they think she hid the body?"

"Or destroyed it, yes. Who knows?" Michel drained the rest of his ale and dropped a few francs on the table, tugging a wool cap over his bald head. "Well, I'd better be going, Antoine. Jillian will be wondering what's taking me so long 'getting home from work.'"

Antoine grinned and offered his hand. "See you tomorrow, Michel."

"_Bonne nuit_."

Erik hardly recognized the fact that he was moving, stalking his prey out into the cold night. His eyes were ablaze with hatred that boiled up from the depths of his soul, scorching his veins as it pounded through his body. He followed Michel into a dark alley, waiting for just the right moment to strike. Michel staggered a bit as he walked, humming an old folk song incredibly off-key. Finally, Erik's moment came. The blundering fool stumbled on a break in the pavement, falling flat on his stomach.

Erik lunged forward. In one swift, silent movement he had the Punjab around Michel's neck. Blood roared in his ears as the desire to kill swelled urgently in his chest. His victim writhed and yelped as the catgut dug into the flesh of his neck, and Erik pulled it tighter until it cut off his air supply. It would be quicker and much less painful to just break the neck and have it done with…

But Erik wanted revenge.

He turned Michel over with his knees so he could watch his face as he slowly drained the life from him. Even in the dim light of the alley, he could see his prey's face turn a deep purple, his eyes bulging frantically in their sockets. His tongue lolled helplessly in his mouth, and blood pooled in his lower lip before spilling down his chin.

Erik looked upon the dying man with cold apathy, a sneer pulling at his lips. "I will see to it now," he hissed, "That you never, _ever_… insult Christine de Chagny again."

And with one hard yank, the kill was complete.

He barely remembered removing the Punjab from the man's lifeless throat, coiling it, and hooking it to his belt. The trip back to the Opera Populaire was a blur. Adrenaline and rage coursed through his nervous system, clouding his senses. Only once the faint glow of candlelight enveloped his trembling form did the realization of what he'd done hit him like a blow to the stomach.

Christine looked up from the pool of filtered water as he stumbled into the room, his face deathly pale. She was at his side moments after he collapsed against the stone wall, shaking uncontrollably.

"Erik!" she cried, dropping to her knees beside him and cupping his good cheek. "Erik, what's wrong?"

His mouth moved wordlessly as outraged tears flooded his eyes. It couldn't be true! It was impossible! He couldn't bring himself to believe…

_She killed him. She killed Raoul and the child in her womb. That's why she came back to me. She's hiding from the police. No wonder nightmares have plagued her every time she sleeps…_

The darkest places in his heart bled in agony, filling him with doubt. Perhaps he had been wrong about her all along. Perhaps wealth and power truly could corrupt the spirit of even the most innocent…

He didn't want to believe it. He _couldn't_ believe it. Not his sweet, gentle Christine. _He_ was the murderer, the monster… she was his sweet, gentle pupil, his love, his _angel_…

His chest heaved with sobs, his face crumpling in pain. Immediately Christine's arms were wrapped around his back, pulling him into her warm, comforting embrace. He succumbed willingly, collapsing into her arms like a small child.

"I'll never believe it, Christine," he wept as she began to rock him gently. "Not you. Not you, _mon ange_… never you."

She frowned, pulling away to look into his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

Erik shook his head miserably, trying with all his might to stop crying. He reached up a hand to stroke her soft cheek, his heart shattering as he looked into her gentle brown eyes. "Never mind, _ma cherie_." Before she could urge him to continue he kissed her lightly, silencing her. Christine went rigid for a moment before her lips softened against his. He pulled away before she could deepen the kiss, his eyes filled with remorse.

"Please, Christine," he begged. "Forget this night. Forget this ever happened." He took her hand in his own, stroking her knuckles. Her brows knitted in concern, and she considered him for a moment before nodding slowly.

Erik forced a smile and placed a chaste kiss on her cheek before rising to his feet. He swept over to his desk without another word, pretending to busy himself with an important letter. His features were placid, though the color did not return to his cheeks.

He had grown very good at masking his doubt.

**A/N: I love Murderous!Erik. –grins- Especially when he gets all sweet and heartbroken right after. Aww. I've gotten pretty good feedback for this chapter so far, which is surprising, because I hated it up until last night when I finished the second half. –shrugs- Anyways, hope the rest of you liked it too!**

**Just a note: School starts tomorrow. –groooans- Unfortunately, that means the every-other-day updates are NOT going to happen. Sorry! I'll try to update as frequently as possible, but please don't expect it. :( **


	19. Honesty

**A/N: -waves- Hi guys! Miss me? –wraps you all in a big huggle- School is going well, but there's a TON of homework… what was I thinking with all these danged AP classes? –sighs- Anywho, there's a little bit of everything to this chapter… predominantly FLUFF, as it were. :) E/C phans, eat your hearts out. **

It was the second lie she had ever told Erik. Try as she might, she could not push the evening's startling events from her mind. Long after she and Erik retired separately for the night she tossed and turned, wondering. What had broken his impenetrable shield, bringing her strong, invincible protector to his knees? As she held him he had prattled incoherently, his pained rant completely lost on her bewildered ears.

_Not you, mon ange… never you._

But not her _what?_ She had no idea what had so deeply upset him— after his breakdown and their tender, unexpected kiss, he had settled down at his desk, working wordlessly on some paper or another for the next half-hour. She had reluctantly returned to her laundry, glancing fretfully at him every few minutes only to find him perfectly calm and composed, absorbed in his writing. Had she not just witnessed it with her own two eyes, she would not have believed that he had been sobbing uncontrollably in an emotional collapse just a few minutes prior. Quite honestly, she couldn't decide which was worse: Erik weeping miserably, openly pouring his broken heart out to her in a series of coded, unintelligible snippets, or maintaining the façade of casual relaxation while his bottled-up emotions ripped him apart. Either way she could do nothing but watch helplessly as he suffered. And she hated it.

The hours ticked by slowly, her torment growing with every minute. Was Erik still awake, she wondered, tortured by the demon that she had unwittingly brought into existence? Most likely… he hardly slept as it was, let alone if something was bothering him. She flipped from her right side onto her stomach, chewing the inside of her lip absently.

_I'll go to him, _she decided after several beats. Her cheeks burned, and she quickly added, _Just to talk._

She pushed herself to her knees and slipped quietly out of bed. A few of the candles in the main room were still lit, casting a faint glow over Christine's slender form as she crept past the organ and hesitated at the entrance to Erik's bedroom. It was the one room in the house she had never entered— she had never been forbidden to do so, but somehow she felt like an unwelcome intruder as she stepped over the threshold. An eerie silence hung in the room, sending a chill up her spine. It was almost like entering a pharaoh's tomb, although more simply decorated. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but she finally made out two large dark shapes on the far wall— one looked like a dresser, and the other…

Christine's breath caught in her throat, and she gasped, backing into the stone wall behind her. Her heart nearly hammered right out of her chest as she saw Erik sit up in what she now recognized as a coffin. A small scream escaped her lips, but just as she felt her knees give out and her mind go numb, Erik's warm arms enveloped her, snapping her back to her senses. She leaned into him for balance as her legs swayed unsteadily beneath her, resting her forehead on his strong chest. He quieted her gently, his hand moving down to her knees in an attempt to pick her up. Christine took a firm step backwards, shaking her head.

"No, I'm fine, I'm fine, really." She exhaled tremulously, pressing her hand to her heart. "I was frightened, that's all."

"Yes… I have a tendency to do that to people," Erik said somberly.

"That's not what I… I wasn't scared of… of _you_, I was…" She pointed to the coffin. "Why do you—?"

"Ah." He sighed. "A… souvenir from my time with the gypsies. I was quite the attraction, you know." His tone grew bitter, every word dripping with vitriolic sarcasm. "The crowds loved me. They paid the sick bastard thousands of dollars to see the infamous Living Corpse, so he bought me this—" He gestured to the casket. "—as a prop to heighten the effect."

She didn't ask how he managed to get the coffin from the gypsies and drag it five levels down into the opera house all by himself; she was quite sure she didn't want to know. Eventually her frantic pulse slowed, and she looked at Erik's silhouette empathetically, reaching up to stroke his unmasked cheek with the back of her hand. The tension seemed to drain from Erik's muscles in a flood, his breath escaping him in a small, contented sigh. Without thinking, Christine rose on her tiptoes to place a gentle kiss on his parted lips. His body went rigid at the light contact, and he wheeled away from her, clenching his hands into fists.

"I don't want your pity," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Go back to sleep." He stormed across the room without another word and laid down in his coffin, his back to her.

Torn by indecision, Christine stood rooted to the spot, merely staring at his motionless form. Since her early childhood she had been taught to obey Erik's every command, and part of her wanted nothing more than to succumb to his order and retreat to the safety of her bedroom. Another part of her was weary of conforming to the demands of everyone else— how many times had she denied herself what she truly wanted in order to make someone else happy? She knew that retreating from Erik now would prove a terrible blow to their relationship. Finally she decided on a compromise; he had not told her _where_ she was supposed to go to sleep…

Drawing in a deep, calming breath, she strode boldly across the room and lifted her skirts a few centimeters, stepping into the coffin next to him. Erik sat bolt upright as she lay down beside him, cushioning her head with one arm and hugging the other tightly to her chest.

"What are you doing?" Erik's feeble attempt at intimidation failed miserably, for his voice wavered in shock.

"Doing as you asked," Christine replied innocently.

Erik was stunned into silence. He gaped down at her, and she pretended not to notice. Minutes passed as she laid there, very much awake, trying desperately to ignore the burning sensation that was growing in her lower abdomen at having the length of her body pressed against Erik's.

Finally, after opening and closing his mouth several times, he found his voice. "What do you want from me, Christine?" There was an almost childlike vulnerability to his tone that tugged at her heartstrings. She sighed, her muscles going limp.

"Honesty," she told him simply, reaching up to gently pry the mask from the right side of his face. He flinched, grabbing instinctively for it, but she tossed it over her shoulder and cupped his deformed cheek firmly. "Stop hiding from me, Erik."

There was a pause before he repeated his question, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Christine swallowed, bracing herself for an outburst. "I want to know what upset you so badly this evening."

Erik bristled, his tone sharpening. "You promised you wouldn't—"

"Only to appease you." Her fingers relaxed and she resumed stroking the twisted flesh. "Please, Erik. I know you weren't upstairs searching for a mop." She took his larger hand in her own and squeezed it gently. "Please… tell me what happened."

It took Erik a moment to answer her, and when he finally broke the heavy silence he spoke slowly, as if weighing every word before allowing it to pass through his lips. "You were right. I left the opera house. And I merely… overheard a rumor that I found upsetting."

"About me," Christine whispered, withdrawing her hand and trying to find his eyes in the darkness. "Tell me what you heard, Erik."

"A drunken man dared to slander your name, Christine." His tone grew dark, and Christine recoiled slightly. "But you needn't worry about the rumor. I have seen to it that he will never again repeat it."

Realization gripped her heart with icy fingers. She could feel the blood drain from her face as her breath picked up speed. "You… you killed him?"

Silence.

A sob welled in her chest and escaped her as a strangled cry. She sprang to a sitting position, her heart drumming viciously.

"How could you?" Enraged tears cut searing tracks down her cheeks. "God Erik, when will you see? When will you _see_?" She buried her face in her hands and turned away from him, the new burden crushing her lungs. Her voice wavered when she gained enough control to form coherent words. "I don't want you to kill for me! Buquet, Piangi… I see their faces at night. It might as well have been my hand that slaughtered them! How many men must die before you understand?" She doubled over with sobs, resting her forehead on the bottom of the coffin. "And then Raoul… you knew I wouldn't let him die for my sake. You _knew_! Why did you force me to choose, Erik? Why? Why wouldn't you let me come to you of my own accord?"

A long, painful silence ensued before Erik answered quietly, "Because you would never have chosen me. Angels do not venture willingly into Hell once they have tasted Heaven."

"I'm here with you now," she pointed out, gesturing to the coffin in which they sat.

"Why?"

She swallowed hard, shaking her head helplessly. "You are all I have left, Erik. Once again, my decisions have been made for me. I didn't ask for Raoul to die."

"No." The bitterness returned to Erik's tone. "You'd be mad to stay here with me if your precious husband waited at home in the de Chagny mansion. Fate was cruel to cast you back into this hell. I apologize for the _inconvenience_."

The smack echoed off of the stone walls, followed by a ringing silence.

Christine glared at Erik's silhouette, her palm smarting from the sharp contact with his cheekbone. "Don't you _dare_," she hissed, "Dismiss my husband's death as an 'inconvenience.'" Her lower lip trembled as a fresh burst of tears flooded her wide brown eyes. "Raoul was a good man, Erik. I loved him very much. We were happy. We were going to be parents… I had everything I'd ever dreamed of. Everything but my Angel of Music." Her fingers snaked up to grasp his shirt in her small fists. "But he's dead, Erik. Raoul is dead. My baby is dead. That life, my future as a Vicomtess, is _dead_. I'm here with you now." She sighed shakily. "One way or another, I'm here with you. And now… now we'll never know what my decision would have been."

"I do," Erik insisted stubbornly, though he spoke in a soft whisper.

A flood of emotions struck Christine hard. Anger still coursed hotly through her veins at his careless insult, but into the mix went hurt and guilt and loneliness, building like heavy acid in her stomach. She missed her husband. She ached to hold the child she had never borne. More than anything, she wanted Erik to understand and comfort her as he had done so many times in her childhood. Two large tears slipped from her eyelashes as she squeezed her eyes shut.

Christine was mildly surprised when Erik reached up a hand to brush her wet cheek. A whimper escaped her, unbidden, as she nuzzled his palm, desperate for human contact. She still grasped his shirt lightly in her relaxed fists, and after hesitating for a moment, leaned into his firm, warm chest. He seemed to be expecting it this time, for his arms enveloped her almost instantly.

Time was of little importance, but she guessed an hour passed before she stretched her stiff muscles and lay down in the coffin, gently pulling Erik down to lay beside her. His muscles tensed as she curled into him, molding her body to fit against his. Her tears had long since subsided, leaving the skin under her eyes slightly inflamed. She wiped her face on his chest as she used to do with her father, letting out a deep sigh. Finally Erik shifted slightly, overcoming his insecurities and snuggling into the warmth of Christine's body.

Erik was surprisingly the first to fall asleep, his muscles relaxing and his breathing growing shallow. Christine stroked his hair absently, more content than she had been in weeks. For once she was sure she would make it through the night without a plague of nightmares. Her heaviest burdens, her darkest secrets, had finally surfaced, leaving her tortured soul at peace. She would never stop aching for Raoul and their unborn child— she had sucked the venom from the wound, but the scar would always remind her of what might have been. But somehow thoughts of her husband were no longer guilt-inducing… she felt peaceful now, refreshed. Fate, it seemed, had given her a second chance at happiness, and she had learned much. She would not fail this time.

**A/N: -roots- Gooo Chrissy! Way to make the best of a… okay, so it's not exactly a bad situation. I mean, the girl is curled up next to Erik in Don Juan pants. She really can't complain. "I'm sorry… Raoul who?" –giggles- Sorry this update took so long, guys. –sighs dejectedly- I'll try my best to get the next one up faster. Like… maybe this weekend. Okay? **


	20. Visitors

**A/N: Okay, random switch in POV! This chappie is from little Miss Meg Giry's perspective. It's quite a bit of her recollections of the last few moments of PotO, but fear not, for it transitions into a plot soon enough! **

Her mother's lips were pressed in a thin white line, the only outward sign of her distress. Meg watched from a careful distance as Madame Giry moved rigidly around the bedroom, pulling on her tights and polished shoes, taking her gauzy black bonnet from the top shelf of her closet, and dabbing a bit of rouge on her high, pale cheekbones. The little ballerina remained perfectly silent, having already prepared herself for departure three hours ago. Try as she might, Meg had not been able to sleep the previous night. She had dozed off fitfully a few times, only to wake and glance dejectedly at the grandfather clock. Christine invaded her every thought... what must it be like to be trapped down in the dank cellars of the ruined opera, alone with the mysterious and murderous Phantom? The very thought sent cold tendrils through her heart. Little Meg had worked herself into a fit of worry for her best friend, but even so, she could not deny the slight pang of jealousy that accompanied it.

The Phantom's love for Christine was palpable, powerful, and passionate, and from what she had seen of Raoul, he adored her with the same fervor and devotion. At the moment Meg was single and poverty-stricken, and her previous hopes of winning the love of a wealthy suitor had been dashed in the flames that ruined the _Populaire_. She couldn't help but feel somewhat bitterly toward her friend, who had escaped on the arm of none other than the Vicomte de Chagny himself. Cruel as it sounded, she had never really thought much of her friend talent-wise until just a few months ago.

She had to admit, though, that Christine had always been somewhat of a mystery to her; on the surface, she was a normal teenager— self-conscious, eager to please, friendly, and sociable— but there was an odd sort of seclusion to her, as if she withheld a secret part of her heart from the world. Meg had always associated the mysterious withdrawal with the sudden and tragic death of Christine's father. She knew that her friend snuck off to the chapel every evening to pray... but only after Christine's astounding performance in _Hannibal_ did Meg fully come to realize what truly went on during those hour-long sessions. At first, upon hearing of Christine's Angel of Music, she had honestly thought her friend mad or delusional. Upon bringing up the subject conversationally with her mother, Meg was further surprised to see the color drain from Madame Giry's face. It wasn't until a few weeks later, after discovering the secret door in Christine's dressing room, that all the pieces came together. On the night of _Il Muto_'s premiere she finally understood that the infamous Phantom of the Opera and the Angel of Music were one and the same, but neither was he a ghost nor a divine being, but a man. Her mother had reluctantly divulged a few terse explanations that only served to heighten Meg's insatiable curiosity on the subject.

Who _was_ this terrifying impostor who so deeply loved and molded her best friend? Meg had only seen his face once, on the night of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Her mother had not exaggerated; his face was a revolting, twisted mass of inflamed flesh, protruding bone, and clumps of blue veins. Somehow this made him even more intriguing to her, and she certainly understood how he had managed to mystify and draw Christine. What she didn't understand was the look on Christine's face as he sang to her. Had she not known better, she would have said her best friend looked as if... as if she loved him back. It was silly, of course, and Christine proved a better actress than Meg would have ever guessed.

_Damn_ her mother for not allowing her to accompany the Vicomte down into the Phantom's lair! She had been furious, trying to lead the frantic stagehands and crew out through the stable yard exit. It had taken her several minutes to remember that she _knew_ the way down... through the mirror in Christine's dressing room! She had announced to the crowd of people following her that she was going down to rescue Mademoiselle Daae, and was taken-aback by the enthusiastic insistence of her followers to join her. Deciding that perhaps the reinforcements wouldn't be such a bad idea, she led them down to the fifth cellar, only to discover an abandoned lair, several broken mirrors, and the Phantom's mask. The mob had scoured the lair for any sign of Christine, Raoul, or the Phantom, but if they had been here, they were long gone by now. A rain of ash and fire had trickled down from cracks in the stone ceiling, and Meg dejectedly followed the rest of the group out of the building.

To her absolute shock, she found her best friend wrapped in a blanket just outside the main entrance, nestled in Raoul's arms, completely unscathed. Meg had run to her and embraced her, but Christine had tremblingly requested that she not inquire about the night's events. She had not seen her since, though there had been a brief announcement in the paper that she had married the Vicomte in a private ceremony a few months afterwards. Both Meg and her mother had been shocked into silence when not two weeks later the Vicomte was pronounced dead in a shipping accident and Christine missing and presumed dead one week after that. Paris was abuzz with the news, delighted at the chance to jump on this juicy slab of gossip. The general consensus was that Christine had murdered her husband and her unborn child in order to inherit his fortune before committing suicide in overwhelming guilt, but upon hearing this rumor Meg had turned beet red and threatened to beat the living daylights out of the gossiper if she ever heard such a thing again. Fortunately her mother had been there to restrain her and explain the situation to the head seamstress, saving both of their jobs in the process. Meg had cried herself to sleep that night, unable to believe the cruelty of fate.

She hadn't known what to think upon receiving the letter from the Opera Ghost, inviting her and her mother for tea. It was such a simple, curt request, and yet it flipped her world inside out. Christine was not dead... but she was terribly ill. What had that monster done to her? Perhaps he had killed her husband and made it out to be an accident, then kidnapped Christine and whisked her down to his lair, force-feeding her some kind of poison to render her incapable of escape. It made perfect sense... but then why would he invite the two of them down? If he was holding Christine hostage, he certainly wouldn't invite her friends over for tea and a chat.

Her blood ran cold at the other option, and she began to fidget nervously with the seam of her pale pink dress.

"Maman?"

Madame Giry did not so much as meet her daughter's eyes in the mirror as she fastened the bonnet to her head. "_Oui_?"

Meg continued to wring her dress, chewing her lower lip thoughtfully. "Do you... do you think he plans to kill us?"

Her mother whirled to face her, searing blue eyes burning into Meg's brown ones. "Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, though the slight twitch of her lip revealed her insecurity. "Why would you say such a thing?"

She lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, lowering her eyes to the hardwood floor. "I don't know."

Madame Giry studied her for a long moment before grabbing her cane and shawl from the back of her vanity chair. "Then you'd best hold your tongue. I have no patience for such preposterous inquiries this morning. Mind your manners, Marguerite Eloise, and refrain from asking any questions, or I shall leave you at home. Understood?"

Meg winced at the unusual use of her full name, nodding. She did not dare mention that the invitation had been addressed to _her_, not her mother. Though she hid it well externally, Madame Giry was bordering on a nervous breakdown, and Meg knew better than to push her over the edge. The same doubts and questions were probably plaguing her, too, but her mother's reaction suggested that she was going to pointedly ignore them and act as if nothing was unusual about the circumstances whatsoever. Meg bit back a sigh, taking her cue to adopt the same demeanor.

_We're just going to have tea with Christine. Just tea. Nothing abnormal about tea. No terrifying Phantoms waiting to stab me in the back with a butter knife. No, sir. Just tea with Christine._

Somehow the thought wasn't very comforting. Nevertheless, she cemented her face into a pleasant smile, grabbed her cloak and scarf from their respective hooks by the door, and followed her mother out into the chilly air without another word.

The sun was already lowering on the western horizon, blazing with cold white light in one last valiant flare before dipping below the skyline. Despite its gentle heat on her back and shoulders, Meg shivered as she walked alongside her mother, her teeth chattering quietly. The sidewalk and streets were bustling with activity, customers darting in and out of the little shops that lined the cobblestone boulevard, street venders offering "special markdowns" on their goods as the workday drew to a close. She paid special attention to each familiar face she passed, each store, each pink-cheeked child and adoring mother, memorizing every last detail of this corner of Paris as if it were the last time she'd ever see it. No matter what Madame Giry said, Meg was still convinced that the Phantom was arranging for their torture and demise at that very moment. Poisons, knives, nooses… hundreds of gruesome deaths played themselves over in her troubled mind as she walked along in silence, staring blankly at the sidewalk ahead of her. Several times she considered turning back, but quickly dismissed the thought; she could not live the rest of her life without knowing what had become of Christine, and if the Phantom was truly out to kill her, as she suspected, he would eventually seek her out anyway.

By the time the gleaming golden statues on the rooftop of the Opera Populaire became visible over the other buildings, Meg was shaking uncontrollably, though whether from the cold or her fear she couldn't be sure. It took her a moment to realize that her mother had ducked into a side street and was no longer beside her. When she finally noticed Madame Giry's absence, she whirled about desperately, letting out a frantic cry.

"I'm right here," her mother said calmly from a few meters away. Meg backed up a few steps and looked down the alley, her breath escaping her in a heavy sigh of relief as she trotted over to her side and clutched her arm. Madame Giry eyed her for a moment before gently touching her chin.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Meg?" she asked softly, her eyes considerably more gentle than they had been at home. "I could tell him you fell ill. There's a little coffee shop just down the street if you want to—"

"I want to see Christine," Meg said with more confidence than she felt. Holding her head up high, she looked her mother squarely in the eyes. "I'm not afraid of him."

Madame Giry's brow knitted, and she gave Meg's shoulder a squeeze. "You are foolish, then. He is a dangerous man, Meg, because he is unpredictable. When we arrive, you should greet him politely, return his mask, and ask to speak to Christine alone. He will respect your privacy."

"What about you?"

She sighed. "Erik and I have much to discuss." The ghost of a smile tugged at her lips. "Don't worry about me, dear. If anything, you should pray I don't lose _my_ temper. I'm much more frightening than he is, when provoked."

Meg was not amused. "Oh Maman, please…"

Madame Giry laughed humorlessly, giving her daughter's behind a gentle swat and striding forward confidently. "Come, come, Meg, enough of this morbid talk. We don't want to keep them waiting."

Chewing her lower lip anxiously, Meg nodded and followed her mother down the alley. They walked several blocks in silence before reaching a narrow breach in the wall to their right where the brick had decayed and crumbled away. At first Meg thought nothing of it, and looked around for a door of some sort on the other side of the street. She balked when her mother stooped down and slipped through the crack in the wall.

"We're not— we're not going in _there_, are we?" she croaked.

"This is it," Madame Giry confirmed, stretching out her hand for Meg's. "I don't know how stable the other corridors are now, but I doubt the fire reached this far."

Meg swallowed, taking her mother's hand reluctantly and stepping into the small, winding tunnel. It was even colder in the drafty, damp passage, and she stayed as close to her mother's warm body as possible. She gasped loudly as they turned a sharp corner and were submerged in total darkness, clutching her mother's hand in a crushing grip. It was bad enough venturing through the tunnels with a blazing torch and a mob of supporters backing her up, but this was another thing entirely.

"Maman!"

"Hush," her mother insisted firmly, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze in return. "Your eyes will adjust. I know this opera house as well as the men who built it. Try to have faith."

Meg pursed her lips to stifle a whimper, her eyes roaming the blackness that surrounded her in a vain attempt to make out something familiar. A resonating sense of foreboding gripped her, and she had the distinct sensation of being watched. Between her pounding heart and heavy breathing, she was sure the Phantom could hear her approach from five kilometers away. She could only hope that he would spare her until she discovered Christine's fate…

_Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me._

She repeated the psalm until her head hurt, but it did very little good to lessen the electricity that coursed through her nervous system. Every noise made her jump; every unidentifiable shadow was the Phantom, ready to pounce on his helpless prey. Her instincts screamed at her to run, but the image of Christine alone in this dark prison urged her on. She could not abandon her friend to rot down here, even if it meant sacrificing her own life. If death's jaws awaited her at the end of this tunnel, so be it; at least she would die nobly.

As it turned out, the only thing awaiting her at the end of the tunnel was a faint golden glow. Meg squinted at it, wondering if perhaps she was already dead, and this was the bright light that so many had spoken of before. Maybe dying wasn't so bad after all. At least it was growing warmer the closer she got to it…

But as they drew nearer and the light grew stronger, Meg realized with a shudder of relief that she was very much alive… and everything looked familiar. The faint outline of gargoyle heads protruded from the walls to either side of her, giving her a strange sense of comfort in spite of their hideousness. She knew where they were now…very, very near to the Phantom's lair. Just a few more strides and they would be—

Before they could reach the end of the tunnel, a tall, black figure stepped into their path, his eyes glittering like green fire from beneath a bone-white mask.

"Good afternoon, ladies," a smooth voice said, the sound pressing in on all sides of her and caressing her ears like liquid gold.

A loud gasp escaped Meg's lips before her legs gave out beneath her, and everything went black.

**A/N: I tell you what, she's fainting for a different reason than I would. ;) As my beta so accurately phrased it: **

**-COUGH, GASP, SWOON, GLOMP, FAINT, SNOG, SNOG, SNOGGITY, SNOG!-**

… **"Whoops. Hi, Chrissy!"**

**LOL! Aaanywhoodle. The tea party has begun, ladies and gents! Needless to say, it'll be… er… interesting. Off to a good start, hmm? –giggles- **


	21. Touché

**A/N: -smiles- Madame Giry fans, I hope I did her justice in this chapter. She's one of my favorite characters, alongside Nadir; I love it when characters have the guts to stand up to Monsieur le Fantôme. Just a warning: this chapter involves some colorful language that might offend some readers. It's rated M for a reason, my loves! **

He had to bite down on his tongue to stifle a cackle as Meg's eyes rolled back in her head and her small body went limp. Madame Giry sprung forward and caught her daughter with all the ease and fluidity of a practiced dance partner, lifting the petite blonde into her surprisingly strong arms. Once Meg was securely balanced in her grasp, she turned her eyes up to Erik with the fiery blue glare he knew so well.

"Wonderful to see you again," she snapped, brushing past him and into the lair. "I trust I may put her in the Louis Philippe room?"

"It's fine with me," he said in a jaded tone that he knew would aggravate her, unable to smother a smirk now that her back was turned to him. "But perhaps you should consult with Christine. It is her bedroom, after all."

With a huff, Madame Giry crossed the room and made her way gingerly up the stairs, pausing at the door to request entrance. When Christine's eager voice replied in the affirmative, the old ballet mistress stepped through the velvet curtain, leaving Erik alone for a few moments.

Believing himself in the clear, he doubled over with laughter, pressing a hand over his nose and mouth to smother the sound.

_Well, this is going well,_ he mused to himself, grinning until his cheeks ached. The sport of haunting had been the farthest thing from his mind over the past few months, but the entertainment of the little game suddenly flooded him full-force. He felt very much like a naughty schoolboy who had just snipped off a little girl's pigtails. Unfortunately, he knew that retribution and chastisement were on their way, and basked in his few moments of childish glory before Madame Giry returned with a vengeance.

Still chuckling quietly to himself, he took the kettle off of the fire and began to pour the steaming water into the dainty, hand-painted china cups he had purchased earlier in the day. His eyes softened, the wicked smile fading from his face, as he recalled waking up that morning, snuggled into the warmth of Christine's soft body. All thoughts of the impending tea party had been pushed to the far corners of his mind as he drowned in her intoxicating, feminine scent, twined his fingers in her chestnut curls, and incredulously savored the sensation of her body molded to his. He had been reluctant to wake her, as she looked so innocent and peaceful while sleeping, but soon she awoke on her own, and after smiling up at him suddenly sat bolt upright, her features glowing excitedly.

"Meg is coming over today!" she had squealed, tripping over her skirts as she scrambled into the main room to prepare for the big day.

A bit of color rose to Erik's cheeks as his stomach churned guiltily. What must Christine be thinking now, he wondered? It had certainly not been his _intention_ to make either of their guests pass out, but he simply couldn't resist the opportunity to ruffle their feathers a bit, for old time's sake. Perhaps he _had_ been a bit overzealous…

Torn between amusement and guilt, he locked his face into a neutral expression and continued loading the tea tray. Once every last millimeter of the golden platter was crammed, he balanced the tray on one steady arm and strode over to the curtain. Christine's muffled voice spoke in a severe tone, but he couldn't quite make out what she was saying. After a moment, he cleared his throat.

"May I come in?"

There was a pause before the curtain parted to reveal a cross-looking Madame Giry. Her tart blue eyes scanned him from head to toe before she snatched the tray from his hands and disappeared back into the room, the curtain swishing shut in his face.

Erik stood there, stunned, before grumbling, "Apparently not." He winced inwardly— was Christine angry with him, then, or did the ladies simply want privacy? He couldn't decide which was worse. If they had something to hide, it wasn't likely good news for him. If Christine was mad at him, then all the progress they had made in their relationship over the past few weeks would need to be rebuilt.

Sighing, he made his way grumpily to the organ and slumped down on the bench. He stroked the keys pensively for a few moments before deciding on a dark tune to match his mood. Within moments he heard footsteps behind him, and found Madame Giry once more in his peripheral vision.

"How is she?" he asked without turning to look at her or ceasing his song.

"Still unconscious."

"I did not mean to frighten her."

She was close to him now; she leaned up against the organ, her arms crossed, watching him with narrowed eyes. "You're lying."

Erik met her gaze unflinchingly, his fingers never faltering, and shrugged. "Alright, I meant to startle the two of you… but I didn't think she would faint."

There was a brief silence before she sighed lightly, her eyes roaming the lair. "I suppose that's as much of an apology as I will ever get from you."

He didn't respond, but merely stared at the keys, pretending to be entranced. Gradually his fingers found lighter chords, the sharpness dissolving from the tune. A few minutes passed before Madame Giry spoke again.

"Christine looks much better," she commented, more to herself than to Erik. "She has some color to her cheeks. I trust you've been taking good care of her."

Erik met her eyes briefly, flashing a warning glance not to pry into his affairs. "A host does what he can to make his guests comfortable."

"As you so flawlessly demonstrated with my daughter." She didn't meet his gaze, but he caught the faint twinkle in her eyes, and the corner of his lip twitched upwards.

"Touché."

She inclined her head and moved away from the organ, crossing the room slowly with her hands clasped at the small of her back.

"I must admit, I'm surprised you came back here," she commented quietly after a few moments of silence stretched between them. "After…well…"

Erik raised an eyebrow. "After you betrayed me to the Vicomte and your daughter's mob nearly destroyed my home."

"Touché," she murmured, keeping her eyes trained on the lake. "I was wondering how long we would beat around the bush."

"I never did like to waste my time abusing shrubbery."

Madame Giry rolled her eyes and sighed sharply. "Erik, this is no time for…"

"Oh, I quite disagree." His fingers finally stopped their rhythmic dance across the organ as he spun about to face her, rising to his feet. "I find this entire situation hysterical, don't you? In fact, I go about this place all the time, laughing, positively _howling_, at the hilarity of it all." Contrary to his words, his eyes crackled with a dangerous fire as he drew closer to her.

Giry held her ground, lifting her chin defiantly. A humorless, mocking smile pulled at her lips as she commented too-sweetly, "Well I'm glad you were able to react in such an optimistic, mature manner."

Something within Erik seemed to snap, and it took every last ounce of self-control to keep him from striking her. "Oh, _maturity_, I see! Is that what we're calling treachery now? No, no, let me guess: you were only doing what you thought was in Christine's best interests, am I correct?"

Giry fumed; he could almost see the smoke curling up from her pores. "Yes, as a matter of fact! Don't presume to be…"

"The only one who cares for her? But I do; I am." He walked in clipped circles around her like a predator closing in on its prey.

"Which explains why you _kidnapped_ her after she refused to be seduced by your goddamned opera?" Sarcasm flared to near-hysteria as her voice intensified in volume and pitch until it was almost a shriek.

Erik halted in his tracks, his eyes rolling shut, clenching his hands into fists to keep them from latching around her throat. Gritting his teeth, he hissed softly, "Do not test me, Antoinette. I will not hesitate to forget our years of camaraderie if you so compel me." He opened his searing eyes a bit and glared at her. "But then, you seemed perfectly willing to sacrifice our relationship for the benefit of the Vicomte. Perhaps I was a fool to consider you an ally in the first place."

Calmer, but nonetheless furious, Madame Giry stared him down icily. "Ally?" she spat. "I was your slave. 'Deliver this letter,' 'present these instructions'… how hypocritical can you be, Erik? You accuse me of treachery, but it was _you_ who forced me to turn my back on every other person in this opera house!"

"I was _saving_ this opera house from bankruptcy!" Erik bellowed, throwing his hands up in disgust. "Without my guidance, the _Populaire_ would have sputtered out of existence years ago!"

"Oh, of course, how silly of me." Giry rolled her eyes, placing her hands on her hips. "By terrorizing the managers and ballet rats, you kept the patrons pouring in the front door, just begging to hand over their money."

"The managers have all been bloody idiots with no artistic appreciation whatsoever."

"Which gave you the right to steal 20,000 francs from them a month as ransom for peace?"

Erik scowled, ignoring her. "Do you remember Ogden and Ethelbert?"

"_Mon Dieu_," she half-murmured, half-sighed, massaging one of her temples. "Of course. They were the worst plague ever to enter these walls." She eyed him tetchily. "Even worse than you, I'd wager."

"_Eraclea_," Erik concurred, shaking his head as he shuddered involuntarily. "They wanted to put on a production of _Eraclea_…"

"I remember." She chuckled softly, also shaking her head. "They wanted a 'classic' Italian opera. I don't believe they'd ever set foot in Italy in their lives, let alone an opera house."

"And do you remember who fixed that little error in judgment?"

Madame Giry sighed, smiling despite herself. "The infamous Opera Ghost lit Monsieur Ethelbert's toupee on fire, as I recall."

Erik bent at the waist in a mock bow. "And which opera was performed instead, may I inquire?"

"_Faust_."

"_Faust_," Erik echoed, a smug, catlike smirk lifting his mouth. "No opera has earned as many patrons for this opera house since. Until _Hannibal_, of course."

"Yes, yes, bravo." She clapped unenthusiastically, raising her eyes to the ceiling. The thin lines around her eyes crinkled faintly in amusement. "And you don't perchance think the latter success might be due in the slightest bit to Christine's performance?"

He scowled. "What sort of imbecile do you take me for? Of course it was due to Christine's performance. But who taught her to perform?"

"Pompous git." Giry sighed through her nose.

"Selfish wench."

They glared half-seriously at one another, Giry's hands planted firmly on her hips, Erik's arms crossed over his chest. Concurrently they sighed in exasperation, before the ghost of a smile brightened the old ballet mistress' face.

"Oh my." She exhaled deeply, pressing her palm to her forehead. "A stroll through memory lane, Erik? How old are we again?"

"Thirteen and eleven," he replied coolly.

Giry shook her head. "Proud of yourself?"

"Immensely."

An awkward, almost tangible silence hung in the air between them before Giry sat in the nearby velvet throne, resting her chin in one hand. "Well, _Monsieur le bon hôte_, I have been here a grand total of…" She consulted the small golden watch that rested in her dress pocket. "… eighteen minutes, and have yet to be served a cup of tea."

Dipping his head curtly, Erik strode over to the kitchen area and proceeded to fill a small white porcelain cup with scalding tea. He mounted it on a matching saucer and handed it to her with an unreadable expression before pouring himself a cup out of politeness, though he set it beside him, untouched. Somehow their little banter had relieved him of a bitter knot in his gut that he had not known existed until it was gone. She was not sorry, but neither was he— this mutual understanding was strangely comforting, although they had accomplished nothing and each clung stubbornly to his or her convictions.

Giry watched him studiously over the rim of her teacup as she took slow, delicate sips of the hot liquid.

"So…" she began pensively, a gleam of curiosity shining in her sharp blue eyes. "What precisely _did_ happen after… that night?"

Erik stared intensely at the floor between them, but his eyes were distant, almost incredulous, as he looked back over the past few months in bewilderment. He realized that the need to speak to someone about it had been welling in his chest, waiting to break free, ever since the fateful evening of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Taking a deep breath, he finally unlatched Pandora's Box, allowing the tale to spill forth as his aching soul heaved a sigh of relief.

**A/N: So I did something stupid. –sighs- I dislocated my pinkie finger, so I had to type the last two pages of this chapter with one hand. "Chicken peck," I believe it's called. Also, my beloved beta has been swamped with real-life issues and my cousin is on a school retreat, so I was unable to get a beta for this chapter. Therefore please forgive any stupid errors on my part, especially typos, as I'm working one-handed here. As my mother so sensitively called me, I'm an "invalid" for the next few days. ;) **


	22. Sisters

**A/N: And here we have Exhibit B: yet another plot twist, albeit much smaller than the discovery that Monsieur le Vicomte is quite alive. While I hope that you all enjoy this chapter, please keep in mind that I was in a Vicodin-induced stupor (I had my wisdom teeth removed yesterday) while writing the majority of this chapter. Fortunately my beloved beta (love you, Em!) took a break from her workload just for me, and caught one of the stupidest errors I think I've ever made! Haha. So everyone please be sure to thank her very much. :) **

Christine cradled her friend's head in her lap, gently stroking Meg's fine blonde locks as she listened shamefully to the heated banter in the next room.

"Which explains why you _kidnapped_ her after she refused to be seduced by your goddamned opera?" Madame Giry roared, making Christine wince and hold her best friend more tightly. It was rare that her old ballet mistress and maternal figure cursed; she cowered a bit upon hearing the foul language, like a frightened child listening to her parents bicker. And worse, they were screaming about her. Christine's large brown eyes filled with tears that dripped down onto Meg's face before she brushed them hastily away. How long had they been going on like this?

"Oh Meg," she sighed miserably, taking the ballerina's limp, milky hand in her own. "I don't know what I expected… I never do with Erik. But this…" She shook her head, glancing at the curtain, and her shoulders slumped a bit. "I don't know. I suppose I thought… he might have changed over the past few weeks… that I might have changed him." She was quiet for a moment before adding in a whisper, "But then, this is all my fault, isn't it?"

The voices beyond the curtain had dulled to vicious, low murmurs she couldn't quite make out; she was grateful. Her gaze fixated back on the delicate, pretty face in her lap. Despite the circumstances that had led to her unconscious state, little Meg looked perfectly at peace as she rested in her friend's arms.

_Did I ever look so innocent? _Christine wondered bitterly. She had known unthinkable pain and loss at the ripe young age of seven, and she couldn't help but be slightly jealous of her unscathed, optimistic friend. Very soon after realizing it, she was ashamed of herself; just because her life had been a living hell in the last few months didn't give her the right to wish the same torment upon sweet, kind Meg Giry. _No one_ deserved it.

With another heavy sigh, she buried her fingers in the flaxen locks, finding the gesture to be much more calming to her own wired nerves than to Meg's. She had been helpless and bed-bound for so many weeks that she wanted to feel needed more than anything, even if it meant comforting an unconscious girl who was quite incapable of appreciating the effort.

A quiet song filled the air before Christine even realized her lips were moving.

_Oft in the stilly night, _

_Ere slumber's chain has bound me, _

_Fond mem'ry brings the light _

_Of other days around me_

_The smiles, the tears, of childhood's years,_

_The words of love then spoken, _

_The eyes that shone, now dimm'd and gone; _

_The cheerful hearts now broken _

Meg did not stir, but Christine's voice faded into a pensive silence as she continued to caress her friend's blond tresses.

"Do you forgive me, Meg?" she breathed, tears sparkling like diamonds in her wide eyes. "I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. I did a terrible thing that night. But you are far too kind for your own good. I'm sure you'd try to convince me that it wasn't my fault." A faint smile pulled at the corner of her lips even as a glistening tear streaked down her smooth porcelain cheek. "Sweet little Meg. What did I ever do to earn the friendship of someone like you? I don't deserve your goodness."

A pained sob caught in Christine's throat as she bent down to place a kiss on her forehead. "I don't deserve anyone, Meg. Not you, not your mother, not Raoul, not Erik… You don't know what I've done; I pray with all my heart you never will." She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. "I'm a terrible person. You saw what I did to Erik onstage… well what you don't know is that I kissed him later that night, right in front of Raoul. I chose him, but I was confused… I thought I was doing it to save my fiancé, but now I'm not sure… I'm just not sure."

She began to shake with sobs. "I was so vulnerable in those first few days after the fire, Meg. I saw the firemen carrying the victims of the chandelier crash out of the opera house. They died because of me. _Mon Dieu_, I might as well have slaughtered them with my own two hands." Warmth crept up into her neck and cheeks as she looked away in shame. "I needed comfort so much, and… and… Raoul was willing to give it. I gave my body to him before we were married. His child was growing in my womb weeks before we had even begun to plan the wedding, but neither of us knew until it was too late."

Her eyes glazed over as she stared across time, drowning in memories. It was a few moments before she spoke again.

"Sometimes I wonder if God was punishing me for what I did. I was still so overwhelmed with guilt from what I'd done to Erik… his voice haunted me day and night. I fear I was withdrawing into myself, cutting myself off from Raoul. I know now that I was being unfair to him… God, why didn't I see? It's all my fault, Meg. I betrayed Erik, _knowing_ that I was unleashing his temper; people died for it, and I nearly destroyed his soul. Then I shut myself off from my husband— my _husband_, Meg!— and… and…"

Christine drew in a shuddering breath around the hard knot in her throat, preparing to voice a dreaded secret that she'd kept bottled in her breast for far too long. "I think I'm responsible for his death, too. Maybe if I had just been more attentive to his needs, been the good wife he deserved, he wouldn't have ever left for that business trip to London. I just… I'm just so afraid that he was trying to escape from me. I was always sulking around the house, lost in a stupor, a ghost of the girl I once was. Don't you see, Meg? It's all my fault! I know what the r-rumors are above ground…"

Her voice wavered and broke. "I'm just… just terrif-fied that it's t-true. Maybe I d-did kill my husband and baby." She doubled over, laying her head on Meg's chest, clutching tightly to her unconscious form. "It's all my fault, Meg. It's all—my—fault! Everyone I touch, everyone who comes near me, is made to suffer for my stupidity. I'm _sick_ of it! Maybe I should just kill myself and be done with it. I would be doing the world a f-favor."

She simply sat there for a long while, hunched over her unconscious friend as sobs wracked her frail body.

"Whe-where am I?" Meg's groggy, confused voice asked suddenly, startling Christine violently from her mournful reverie.

"Meg!" she gasped, sitting bolt upright and cupping her pale cheek fretfully. "Oh, thank God! How are you feeling?"

"I'm… I'm alright, I think." Slowly Meg pushed herself to a sitting position, rubbing a hand over her eyes and forehead. She blinked a few times, her pupils contracting and widening several times as her bloodshot eyes attempted to adjust to the soft glow of candlelight. After a moment she seemed to get a grasp on her surroundings, and whirled about suddenly as if seeing her friend for the first time. "_Mon Dieu_… Christine!" she cried, throwing herself back into her arms. "Christine, you're alive! You're safe!"

Christine laughed through her tears, hugging her friend tightly against her. "Oh Meg, I've missed you so much, you have no idea!"

"I was so worried about you! Down here all alone with the Phantom of the Opera…"

"How have you been? It's been an eternity…"

"I didn't know if you were sick or…"

"After the fire I didn't know what happened to you…"

"Hurt or anything! Let alone what became of Raoul…"

"All I remember was seeing you that night and then…"

"There were terrible rumors spreading, but I didn't believe a word…"

"But none of that matters any more— you're safe! You're here!"

"I knew it wasn't true! And here you are, just like the letter said!"

They both panted for breath, bright smiles stretched across their young faces. The tears had retreated from Christine's eyes, and she giggled like the girl she was before grabbing her friend in another firm hug.

"You must tell me everything!" Meg insisted as the two parted, taking Christine's hands tightly in her own and meeting her eyes, refusing to let them go.

"I will," she promised, releasing one of Meg's hands and grabbing a teacup from the small table beside the bed. "But I want you to drink this first. It will make you feel better."

Sighing wearily, as if their brief exchange of euphoric exclamations had sapped her of all the strength in her body, Meg accepted the cup and sipped its contents, coughing a bit as she tried to swallow it down too fast. Christine frowned slightly and patted her back before taking the empty cup and setting it back on the stand.

"Where to begin?" she whispered, twisting a corner of the velvet sheet between her thumb and forefinger.

"The beginning, perhaps?" Meg offered with a weak smile.

Christine returned it before sighing deeply, folding her hands in her lap and reluctantly meeting her friend's inquisitive brown eyes. "I… suppose the first thing I should tell you is that no one is keeping me down here. Erik has been very kind to me, Meg. I don't know what happened out there, but I'm sure he didn't mean to frighten you." The petite blonde looked more than slightly disinclined to believe her, but she nodded her consent to continue nonetheless. Christine swallowed hard, lowering her gaze to her hands. "I came back to him when I was very unwell. I… had just learned of my miscarriage of Raoul's child. I was frightened and confused and… I didn't know who else to turn to."

"Why didn't you come to us?" Meg asked gently, her tone laced with hurt.

"I didn't know where you were living…" Christine's eyes flickered up to meet her friend's as the poor excuse drifted from her lips, and she sighed before admitting, "I needed to be with someone who understood my pain. You and your mother did not need to carry any more of my burdens, Meg; I hurt you more than enough for one lifetime."

"That's not true," Meg insisted dutifully. "You've always been like a sister to me, Christine, and my mother loves you like another daughter."

"Which only makes it worse that I ruined your promising career," Christine added glumly.

"Don't be silly. First of all, it wasn't you who burned this opera house down, and second, Maman has already arranged an audition at the _Teatro dell' Opera di Roma_."

This new piece of information brightened Christine's spirits minimally, and she offered her friend a sincere smile. "That's wonderful, Meg! Oh, just think, you'll be onstage again, dancing in one of the finest opera houses in the world!"

Meg stared seriously at her friend for a long moment, taking both of Christine's hands in her own before whispering, "Come with us."

The air hitched in Christine's chest as her heart skipped a beat. She could feel the blood drain from her face as she stared numbly into her friend's kind eyes. "What?"

"Just imagine it, Christine: you could be the prima donna of Rome! We would be together again; we could leave Paris once and for all."

The room was spinning around her; she couldn't breathe. Rome… Italy! Did Meg realize how powerfully her words had impacted her? Here sat her best friend, offering her the opportunity of a lifetime— everything she'd ever dreamed of. At last she could put her painful past behind her. No more suffering, no more Paris…

…_No more Erik_…

She pressed her hand to her heart, finally remembering to breathe. The blood rushed back to her cheeks and roared in her ears as she pondered Meg's request and all its implications. Her friend seemed to sense her disturbance, for she gently reached up and touched Christine's shoulder.

"You don't need to answer me now, Christine. We're not leaving until the end of the month." She leaned forward and placed a light kiss to Christine's flushed cheek. "No matter what your decision, you will always be my best friend."

Tears suddenly flooded Christine's eyes, and her lower lip trembled as she nodded, attempting to smile. "Oh, dear, sweet Meg!" She embraced her tightly, burying her face in Meg's neck. "_Je te adore, mon ami_."

The two girls clung to one another as though the world would unravel if they let go, until finally the curtain parted and Madame Giry stepped in, clearing her throat.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, ladies." She nodded sadly at her daughter. "Meg, it's time to say goodbye."

The petite blonde squeezed her friend harder, bringing her lips to Christine's ear and whispering, "Think about it," before the girls exchanged a kiss on each cheek, brief tears, and brave smiles.

Meg trotted dutifully over to her mother and took her outstretched hand, stepping through the curtain with one backward glance and a wink at her best friend. Two large tears slid down Christine's cheeks as she smiled and waved, mouthing "goodbye." The Girys disappeared through the red velvet curtain as quickly as they had come, leaving Christine alone once more with her thoughts.

**A/N: Dun, dun, dunnn! ****I know, I know, the last thing Erik needs is for someone to tempt Christine away from him just when things are getting good! Meg's offer was as much of a surprise to me as it undoubtedly was to the rest of you… I just kinda typed it at the last minute and decided to go with it. Here's to improvisation! –cheers- **


	23. Siren

**A/N: Hola, amigos! Para ésta capítulo, recomiendo que ustedes lean capítulo diecisiete para repasar y comprender lo que está ocurriendo ahora. ****Okay? Sííí, Danielle!**

**-giggles as a whole bunch of you give me blank stares and go off to some online translator- **

**Let me spare you the effort: **

**Hello, friends! For this chapter, I recommend that you read chapter 17 to review and understand what's going on now. Okay? Yeees, Danielle!**

_Water._

_There was water everywhere— it was the most vivid memory he possessed. _

_Lapping harmlessly at his ankles at first, little more than an annoyance. An inconvenience. But soon it had risen to his knees, the prickling cold gradually draining sensation from his toes until he was perfectly numb. He waded across the comfortably furnished cabin, grunting as the icy water tugged at his trousers. Still half-asleep, he fumbled to light the gas lamp, and gasped as its warm golden glow illuminated the room. _

_About half a meter of icy ocean water filled the room. He opened and closed his eyes, thinking perhaps it was a dream… but the biting cold water that inched slowly up his legs would not be denied._

_Fighting down a scream, he stepped out into the long, whitewashed hallway. Faceless blurs of color and sound darted frantically in and out of doors: shouts, commands, sobs, and pleas for help. Over all the noise he managed to pick out the desperate cry of an infant._

_Panic began to set in as the water rose higher still, threatening his most sensitive of areas. The feeling in his calves was dissolving slowly but surely, and he forced himself into the crowd in a mad dash for an exit of some sort. His own cries and prayers went unheard by the deaf ears of those around him, and to his horror he soon found himself utterly alone, the brilliantly white hallway stretching on before him with no sign of escape. _

_Only the baby's cries still pierced the air. He focused on the sound in order to maintain consciousness, wondering where the infant's parents might have gone._

_Suddenly, the lights flickered and died; he was enveloped in total darkness. _

_His breathing and pulse picked up speed as he moved faster through the ever-rising water, one hand pressed to the wall just ahead of him for balance. Seemingly out of nowhere came another sound… eerie and haunting, inhuman in its beauty. Somewhere near him… and yet far away, all around him, _inside_ him… _

Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime

Turn my head with talk of summertime

Say you need me with you now and always

Promise me that all you say is true

That's all I ask of you…

_He ran from the Siren's song— or did the best he could in the now waist-deep water. The bodiless voice continued to hum the strangely familiar tune as he scrambled through the hall, half-running, half-swimming._

_The baby's wails were closer now— he could feel the vibrations in the wall beneath his palm. He wondered for a moment if perhaps the frigid water had made him delusional, but soon his groping fingers found a doorknob, and he heaved with all his might to pull it open. _

_The room was smaller than his had been… third class, he guessed. Clothes floated on the surface of the water, along with a child's doll and several small white teacups. In the middle of the cabin was, sure enough, a wooden bassinette. Inside it, a squirming mass of blankets proved to be the source of the noise, and as he pushed discarded objects aside he saw two tiny pink fists flailing about in the air. The water rose steadily up the side of the cradle, but had not yet touched the baby within. His heart clenched; he could not abandon it here to be swallowed by the ocean's swell. Finally reaching the bassinette, he reached inside and lifted the infant— a little girl— to his shoulder, far above the reach of the lapping water. He murmured soothing reassurances to her as he picked through the cluttered water and back out into the hall._

_He flinched as once again the Siren's voice caressed his ears like liquid gold._

All I want is freedom

A world with no more night

And you, always beside me

To hold me and to hide me

_He didn't know what frightened him more: the very existence of the disembodied song or the fact that he recognized it. Either way, he ducked his head protectively over the baby's and bolted as well as he could through the rising water. Its cries had ceased upon hearing the song; the little infant cooed and gurgled contentedly, snuggling into him. Meanwhile his heart was beating like the wings of a hummingbird in terror. There was no way out, he was beginning to realize, no escape. He and this poor child, hardly two months into life, would soon take their last breaths. The water was up to his collarbone now— he held the baby over his head, trying to keep her from her untimely demise for as long as possible. Hot tears flooded his eyes at the injustice of it all… he wasn't ready to die! He still had the majority of his life ahead of him, so many opportunities still untaken, roads not yet traveled, people to meet, places to see. As his chin and lips were submerged he finally stopped trying to run, sucking in a deep breath through his nose for whatever good it would do. Moments later it, too, was underwater. _

_He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the end. Unfortunately his lungs were still young and healthy, capable of holding out for much longer than he would have liked. He felt the water rise up to his elbows and then to his wrists as he continued to hold the baby up even as the last of his hopes for survival died out. In a few minutes she would be dead, as would he._

_The water enveloped his hands and lifted the baby from his fading grasp. He tried to cry out, but there was no air, no sound._

_Only water._

_His lungs burned. He couldn't breathe… he needed air, precious, life-giving air…_

_From the murky depths came a brilliant white light, approaching him slowly. It took him a moment to realize that it was an angel herself, luminous and stunningly beautiful, who drew near to him, singing the familiar song. Her skin was as pale and smooth as cream, her hair a sea of chestnut curls. Two large eyes stared out at him unblinkingly from her perfect face, and he watched, half-fascinated, half-horrified, as a diamond tear dripped from her cheek._

_She reached out a small, delicate hand to him, and as the bright flesh touched his cheek, his entire body tingled with a current of warmth._

"_Oh Raoul," she breathed, a faint, sad smile lifting her perfect lips. "My poor, sweet Raoul." Without warning she suddenly rose to her tiptoes, her arms wrapping around his neck. Bringing her beautiful face within a hair's width of his own, she whispered brokenly, "Forgive me," and gently brought her parted lips to his._

He gasped, and was shocked to find that cold, crisp air entered his mouth. Yet somehow he was still drowning… his lungs were heavy, and he couldn't draw in a full breath. His eyes suddenly snapped open, though the bright lights around him temporarily prevented him from seeing anything. Frantically he tried to suck in more of the valuable air, and doubled over with violent, rasping coughs as a result.

_Dear God in heaven, I'm alive…_

After a moment the coughs subsided, though the sensation of drowning never fully lifted from his chest. His vision finally cleared, and he took in his surroundings with a mounting sense of terror. He had never seen this place before, or the woman who had fallen to the floor in front of him. She watched him as he began to get his bearings, her brown eyes both wary and relieved. Despite her unkempt, worn appearance and crumpled brown dress, she was actually rather pleasing to the eye. Had he been entirely collected in wits, he might have called her beautiful.

Fortunately, his mouth moved much more quickly than his thawing mind, giving him an impression of control and dignity, though he possessed neither.

"Who are you?" he asked— he demanded.

The woman looked confused, her brow furrowing slightly. "I'm sorry. I don't speak French," she said in a voice unnaturally hoarse and rough, as if it had been strained too many times in the past and never fully recovered.

The transition came easily enough. Something in the back of his mind registered her Cockney accent, and clicked into fluent English as if flipping a switch. As he began to speak to her, a bit more calmly now, he vaguely wondered how many languages he knew. He honestly couldn't remember.

"I said… who are you?" Little streams of cold sweat trickled down his temples and stung his eyes; he wiped at his head absently with the hand not currently drenched in thick white fluid from his lungs. He still couldn't catch his breath, but he was gradually becoming accustomed to the lack of air. Everything ached— his head, his muscles, his swollen joints, and more than anything his chest. He felt as if he had been kicked squarely in the ribs by an enraged draft horse.

If the woman had been puzzled before, now she looked positively bewildered. Her red lips worked soundlessly before she finally managed in a small voice, "I— Emily. I'm Emily."

The two merely stared confusedly at one another before the woman— Emily— seemed to take note of his sticky hand. Her eyes fell upon a damp rag which lay on the ground near her feet, and very slowly she moved toward him as if to clean it for him. He winced as her hand brushed his, still not entirely comfortable with the situation. A name and a language told him very little; he knew next to nothing about this woman. All he knew was that he was obviously sick, in a great deal of pain, and in a strange house with a woman he had never seen before in his life. For all he knew, _she_ had been the one who put him in this predicament in the first place! Fortunately, she seemed to pick up on his distress, for she retreated quickly, allowing him to wipe off his hand by himself.

It took him a moment to realize the introductions were not yet complete. He thought deeply for awhile, his brow furrowed, as he tried desperately to remember his own name. Finally the last blissful seconds of the dream snagged his attention. The angel had called him by a name. Raoul… he tried out the name a few times in his mind, and the sound of it struck a chord within him. Yes! Raoul… that was it! He barely managed to relay this information to the woman before another fit of coughs seized his aching lungs. Each shuddering gasp for air was like the jab of a knife in his side… he was sure of one thing: he had never known such pain in his life.

"What… hap-pened to… me?" he choked, still trying to maintain a commanding tone even as he curled up in pain.

Emily explained something to him about drowning and a fisherman… someone named Charlie. At least, that's what he thought she had said; he couldn't be quite sure, as his brutal coughs drowned out most of her explanation. He remembered the first part vividly, but nothing of the latter.

At last, after seemingly endless minutes of excruciating torment, the coughing spell dwindled. He collapsed against his sweat-soaked pillow, exhausted to the point of trembling. His eyelids grew unbearably heavy, and he closed them for a moment, trying to catch his breath. When Emily's hands brushed his shoulders to wrap a blanket around him, he didn't have the strength to resist.

But somehow her next words ignited the spark of wariness within him, giving him vigor beyond his weary body's endurance. "'Ow are you feeling, my love?"

_My love?_ His voice mirrored his thoughts as he shrank back, trying to put as much distance between the two of them as possible. That wasn't right; it couldn't be! A gut instinct screamed at him to get away from this woman, but it was utterly impossible. He was too weak to stand, let alone fight her off. Besides, he had no proof— what if he was wrong? It was ludicrous, but somehow… somehow he was convinced that he was bound to the angel in his dreams. No fire rose in his heart when he looked upon this woman, this so-called "Emily." But it was absolutely preposterous to be in love with a non-existent woman, let alone an angel! If the woman before him truly was his lover, which he was not yet confident enough to dismiss as a possibility, he would be an idiot to hurt or offend her when she had done nothing wrong.

"I… have… have we met?" he stammered, trying to keep a tight rein on his voice.

He felt a pang of guilt as tears flooded her dark brown eyes, her striking features crumpling. "You… you don't remember me?" she whimpered.

"I don't remember anything," he admitted, then immediately wished he hadn't. What if she _wasn't _who she claimed to be? He had just given away his last shred of dignity… she knew now that he was a vulnerable, helpless mess.

_You IDIOT! _His conscience screamed.

Emily inched closer to him, one of her warm hands enveloping his. Unsure of what to do, he stared up like a frightened child into this temptress's eyes as she stroked his cheek lovingly and whispered his name.

"Raoul, my love… it's me. It's your Emily. Your…" A choked sob escaped her, along with a single tear. "…Your wife."

Such love, such hurt and desperation and sincerity shone through her eyes that for a moment, he could not doubt the honesty of her mind-boggling statement. He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth, trying very hard to stay conscious.

_Married…_ why didn't his gut react to _this_ concept when it balked at the other? Was his lack of reaction an indication that this was real, the honest-to-God truth? Frowning, he glanced down at his left hand. Sure enough, a thick gold band encircled his ring finger. Something about the piece of jewelry brought a flash of memory to the forefront of his mind— roses and white lace. His wedding day? The more he tried to cling to and expand it, the quicker it dissolved. Frustrated to the point of tears, he momentarily resigned himself to believing her.

A shuddering sigh escaped him as he nodded in acquiescence.

**A/N: So how many of you right now are going "Uh, it's the exact same as Chapter 17 from Raoul's point of view!"? Believe me this: that dream sequence was LOADED with symbolism, a lot of which won't make sense right now. There will be other, similar dreams later on which will build on this one and hopefully make everything clear. Nothing was on accident!**

**It worked wonders when I offered a plate of virtual brownies to all my reviewers for Solitude, so I'll put out this –nifty tray of hot, gooey brownie fudge sundaes- for everyone who reviews this chapter. :D **

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	24. Threshold

**_A/N: Kindly remember that this phic is rated M for a reason. –smirks- Though I highly doubt any of you will complain… lol. Anyways, this chapter is one of those which earns "Evergreen" its rating. You've been warned! Read on at your own risk, oh squeamish ones!_**

**_-glares- JESSICA, no quirks about this! It's weird enough that you're reading this in the first place! LOL! Believe it or not, there's a dark side beneath these blonde curls… -little devil horns pop up-_**

**_And thank you so very, very much to my wonderful beta whom I love. She's really sick (fever, chills, etc.) but she still took the time to look over this chapter for me. Thank you also to my cousin, Sandy— you're an angel, ma cherie! I know how busy you are, and yet you still make time (when you SHOULD be sleeping) for this story. I love the two of you to death! _**

The silence was suffocating.

Ever since the Girys had disappeared through her curtain, Christine had not heard a peep from the other room. Erik's evasion had quickly begun to weigh on her senses— she turned over her shoulder every few seconds to see if he was standing in the doorway. It was the oddest feeling… he was nowhere in sight, perhaps even not in the lair, but she had the distinct sensation that he was watching her. After several peeps through the curtain and still no sign of him, she was quite certain she was imagining things.

"He probably went to run an errand of some sort," she murmured under her breath, merely for the sake of breaking the unbearable hush that hung like a muffling blanket over the lair. Nevertheless, her eyes darted nervously to the curtain as she opened the doors to her armoire and selected a nightgown and robe.

She sighed heavily as she laid the garments out on the divan, her fingers trailing absently over the white muslin as she became entangled in her thoughts. The voice in her head, at least, was better than the oppressive silence that encased the room.

_Mon Dieu… Rome. ROME! I could have it all back, everything I knew and loved. I could be onstage again, dancing and singing like Papa always promised I would. Oh, he would be so proud— I can almost see his smile. "You will be my beautiful prima donna, sweet Little Lotte…" If he was here, he would tell me to go. He would understand. At last I could put all of this heartache behind me. Imagine— reliving _Hannibal _every night of my career! Rome… Mary and Joseph, Rome! God, I can almost smell the greasepaint and candle wax. I can almost hear them cheering, calling my name. La Cristina… yes, that would do nicely. Hundreds of fans begging for an encore, throwing roses at my feet! Oh, how I've missed it. I'm ready for this. I've been ready all my life… but now, now I finally have the talent to accompany my motive. How many times has Erik told me…?_

The name suddenly made her blood run cold, and the hopeful light died in her eyes and heart.

_No. I can't… I can't do this to him again. I can't bear to see that expression on his face. This is all because of him… everything. After Papa died, my whole world, my whole existence, was rebuilt on the foundation of his love. How can I even think of betraying him? He is temperamental and impulsive and arrogant and I absolutely can't _stand_ him sometimes, but deep down, I… I can't help but lo- _

Christine shook her head, snapping out of the reverie. No, she wouldn't go there. She _couldn't_. That part of their history was dead and buried.

_Which explains why you woke up on top of him this morning,_ taunted a cynical voice in her head.

Blood rushed to her cheeks as she focused her attention back on dressing. Perhaps silence wasn't so bad after all.

She sighed again, bending her elbows behind her to try and undo the metal clasps. It quickly proved to be a much more daunting task than she had anticipated; after ten years in the ballet corps with Meg to help her suit up, another month in the de Chagny household with twenty maids waiting on her hand and foot at all times, and even more recently when she had worn little more than a nightshift (in compliance with Erik's assertion that it was unhealthy to constrict her organs while healing from such a tolling physical experience), she was surprised to learn that she had never in her life had to undress by herself. A small, determined frown creased her delicate brow as she bent her arms every which way— over her shoulders, back behind her waist, and some odd combination of the two— but no matter how hard she tried, she could not seem to undo the hooks in the middle of her back, just beyond the reach of her fingers.

A gentle breeze skirted the sensitive skin of her ear mere seconds before two icy hands gripped her wrists. Christine's breath hitched in her chest, her brown eyes going wide in panic. Internally she cursed herself for being caught off-guard; she _knew_ Erik had been watching her, but had allowed her mind to wander. She was uncertain of his current mood, as she was unable to see his face, which made it all the more frightening to be pinned, helpless, in his firm grasp.

_Not good, not good, not good! _She moaned internally.

"Let me assist you," he breathed into her ear as he set her arms at her sides and proceeded to unhook the remaining clasps with a feather-light touch. Christine blushed furiously, unnerved and embarrassed and entirely aroused by the gentle workings of his fingers along her back. Her heart began to pound when he finished unhooking the dress and pushed it up to her shoulders, starting in on her corset laces.

"Erik!" she gasped.

"Shh," he murmured as his hands continued to work a scorching trail up her spine. As in all things, she could do nothing but obey, pressing her lips into a firm white line. Christine clenched her teeth, trying with all her might to fight down the desire that grew like an inferno in the pit of her stomach.

She was more than slightly surprised (and disappointed, if she were being honest with herself) when Erik's nimble hands ceased their seductive dance along her bare back, the corset loosened enough for her to remove it without any further assistance.

It took another minute for the red fog to dissipate from her yearning body. Only then did she remember her manners.

"Thank you," she whispered, her lust-darkened eyes trained on the floor. Her heart resumed its frenzied pattern when his lips brushed her earlobe, his voice aggravatingly calm and controlled.

"I trust you can undress by yourself now?"

_NO! _Her mind shrieked. _Ask him to help! Don't let him stop! _

Her pride, however, won out. She tilted her chin up, desperately trying to keep a tight rein on her erratic breathing. "I could have done it in the first place."

Erik's soft laughter resonated in her taut stomach, making it churn with longing. He had to get out before she did something she would regret…

Fortunately he seemed to have the same idea. "Put on something loose. No more of this ridiculous corset business; it restricts your breathing." His hands were suddenly at her back again, pushing the corset down her arms. She could feel his lips curl into a smile as she lost control over her lungs, her breath coming in shallow, sharp gasps as every last nerve in her body ignited beneath his touch. "You see?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

Erik was gone as quickly and silently as he had come. From the curtain he said quietly, "We shall commence your next vocal lesson as soon as you are ready."

And then there was silence.

Christine couldn't decide whether to be furious or exhilarated. Her movements were clipped and brusque with a combination of the two as she proceeded to shed the remainder of her clothes. Somehow she refrained from glancing over her shoulder, positive that she didn't want to know whether he was still at the curtain watching her disrobe. If he was, she was sure that she would be driven to madness by her embarrassment and insatiable lust; if he wasn't, she would be offended that he didn't _want_ to see her. No good could come of it, so she kept her eyes determinedly fixed on the divan.

Her frustration only heightened as another memory floated to the forefront of her mind.

_Your soup is getting cold…_

DAMN him! How was it that he knew every one of her sexual weaknesses, and managed to exploit them every—single—time? It was maddening! Each time he set his mind to it, without fail, he tormented her until she had reached her breaking point, took wild satisfaction in her vulnerability, and promptly left her there, every nerve in her body screaming for his touch. Was this his idea of payback— a sick, cruel game to make her realize how much she truly needed him, and how _stupid _she had been to leave him for the bland Vicomte?

… Perhaps the most aggravating part was that he had done just that.

She bit down on her tongue to hold back a scream of rage. This was utterly ridiculous! She refused to let him rule over her emotions like this; she wasn't an easily-manipulated little child any more! _Two_ could play at this game, and fortunately, she knew Erik's weakness as well as he knew hers.

Music. _His_ music— his life's work.

Once she had dressed in her thin, form-hugging nightgown and lace robe, she took a moment to collect herself— closing her eyes, taking a deep breath, and attempting to slow her racing pulse— before stepping through the curtain.

Erik sat, predictably, at the organ, looking contemplative, absorbed in his work, and entirely too innocent, as he flipped through several compositions in search of the afternoon's lesson. Christine smiled triumphantly as she fixed her posture, holding her chin in a flirtatious tilt. She tossed her chestnut curls over one shoulder as she took her place beside him, staring at the organ keys.

"Would you like to work on anything in particular today?" Erik asked, adopting the didactic tone of her Angel of Music.

Her eyes flickered up to his face as he continued to thumb through the compositions. From where she stood, the only part of his face she could see was the unblemished left side. She had forgotten how devastatingly handsome her tutor truly was, minus the unfortunate deformity which had single-handedly managed to ruin his life. A deep sadness took root in her heart as she thought of how different his life— _her _life— might have been, had the other half of his face been as beautifully sculpted as this one. Meanwhile she stared unabashedly, consumed by thought, committing every last feature to memory: the dark stubble along his strong jaw, the curl of his long, dark lashes, the shape of his brow, the structure of his cheekbones and nose, the curve of his lips…

"Christine?" Erik asked, visibly unsettled by her studious gaze.

"_Don Juan Triumphant_."

Was that _her _voice that had just uttered those three taboo words? She had been planning to suggest it all along, but it happened so quickly, she could hardly believe that the cool, confident words were her own. And suddenly it seemed like a very, very bad idea…

Evidently, neither could Erik. His green eyes snapped to hers, going wide in surprise. "What did you say?"

Christine fought the urge to turn on her heel and run, mentally berating herself from making such a quick, thoughtless, ill-advised suggestion. What had she been _thinking_? Of course _Point of No Return _would drive him mad with desire… he had written it specifically for that purpose! But how quickly she had forgotten the ease with which _she_ had fallen prey to the seductive spell of Erik's lyrics…

Unfortunately there was no way she could take it back now— he had heard her with perfect clarity, despite his demand for her to repeat herself. Spurred on by her pride, she tried her best to explain with an air of haughty indifference.

"You caught me off-guard that night. I know I did not sing to the best of my ability. This was your life's work, was it not?" She did not wait for an answer; her mouth seemed to be running of its own accord. "_The Point of No Return _was tailor-made for my voice, and I did not do it justice onstage— you know I didn't. We never did get to practice. Come, let's sing it! Unless, of course, you're uncomfortable…" She trailed off with an unmistakable air of flirtation. If she was to lose this game, she would at least do so with her dignity intact.

"No!" Erik choked, his eyes widening even further. He lowered his gaze to the stack of papers in his hand, flipping incredulously to the sheet music for Act One of his life's masterpiece. He cleared his throat as he handed the papers to her, having gained control over his voice and expression. "No," he said more calmly. "We shall practice this song if you like."

Christine frowned, offering the sheet music back to him. "I don't need this."

He took the papers from her hand with a raised eyebrow. "I see." With all the professionalism of a world-renowned scholar, he brought his long, elegant fingers to the organ keys and played a brief warm-up for her to follow along with. When her air control, posture, and pitch were to his liking, he nodded. "From the third measure on page five, then…"

For the umpteenth time that day, Christine blushed in embarrassment. "Oh… right. Um, which line is that again?"

A maddening, knowing smile spread across his face as he placed the sheet music back into her hand, and pointed to the correct line. He graciously played the introductory notes before glancing up at her briefly in a cue to begin.

_So much for maintaining my dignity, _she mumbled internally before breaking into song.

_You have brought me_

_To that moment when words run dry—_

"Stop!" His fingers jerked away from the keys as he pivoted on the bench to face her, his brow lowered in a frown. "Remember, Christine, you are not merely singing; you are _acting_. This is what separates you from La Carlotta and nearly every other diva in Europe. You must convince your audience that you _are_ the character who is singing. You cannot simply sing Aminta's role, you must step into Aminta's skin. Do you understand?"

"Yes, mon a-" she stopped herself from finishing the familiar title, dropping her eyes in humiliation.

She did not see Erik's faint smile as he turned away and patiently replayed the opening chords. "Again."

Nearly an hour later, they had worked their way through the entirety of Christine's solo. Erik stretched his spine with the grace of a cat and began to pull away from the organ when Christine's hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"Wait," she said, trailing her fingers slowly down his arm. The game was not over yet! "We haven't finished the song." She gestured to the music in her hand with a tempting pout. "Sing with me, Erik." He stared up at her with blatant surprise before his eyes softened and he turned back to the organ with a sigh.

Christine bit her lip, suddenly self-conscious. "I mean, we certainly don't have to…"

"Stop second-guessing yourself," Erik interrupted firmly, regaining the upper hand. "It is very unbecoming to be so irresolute. I merely assumed…" His voice trailed off, and he shook his head as if to rid himself of an unwanted thought. After clearing his throat, he positioned his fingers over the keys and offered an introduction to their duet. This time his voice accompanied hers.

_Past the point of no return,_

_The final threshold—_

_The bridge is crossed,_

_So stand and watch it burn!_

_We've passed the point of no return._

They refused to meet one another's gaze as the last chord faded, and an awkward silence settled between them. Christine studied her hands guiltily; she remembered all too well what happened next. She remembered the horror and the pain on his face while tears of remorse had streamed down her own. Even now her heart felt as if it was weighted down with lead.

But what happened this time was entirely unexpected. Hours later her mind still reeled upon looking back on it.

Erik's touch was heartbreakingly gentle as he reached out a finger to stroke her cheek. Even still, she kept her eyes trained on his collarbone, prolonging the inevitable.

"Look at me, Christine."

She did, and immediately wished she hadn't. His eyes were brimming with pain beyond tears, as if three decades of agony were finally surfacing in those pools of liquid jade.

"I'm so sorry, Erik—" she choked.

"Please," he whispered at the same time, "Forgive me for that night."

She frowned, caught entirely off-guard. "What?"

"You… you should have never had to suffer for my sake." He sighed, passing a hand wearily over his pained features. "All I ever wanted was your love, and with that damned opera I earned your hatred. I _deserved_ your hatred. I didn't understand… and my temper…I… I lashed out. There's no excuse. I was unfair to you, and I'm sorry. God, Christine, I'm so sorry…"

Christine silenced him with her lips, unable to bear any more of his choked pleas for already-granted forgiveness. With a single swipe of her palm across the right side of his face she removed his mask and wig. Before he could object she pulled him tightly against her, twining her fingers in his real hair. She smiled as he returned the kiss with a matching fervor, pulling her down into his lap as his warm tongue darted between her lips. It only took a few seconds for their gentle, consoling kiss to become something animalistic— fevered and desperate, the perfect reflection of their passionate duet. Christine grasped his neck as she repositioned herself higher above him, inviting him to plunge deeper into her mouth. She knew without a doubt now that she was ready to succumb to the desire which had lurked in the depths of her heart for years, and his longing for her was quickly becoming obvious between the thin layers that separated them.

She broke their frantic kiss and tilted her head back, drinking in open mouthfuls of air. Erik continued to run his lips over as much skin as he could possibly manage between pants for breath, kissing her nose and chin and neck and shoulders.

"Erik!" Christine gasped as his hand slid up her silken thigh, boldly daring to explore new territory. She braced a hand against his chest, managing to pull back a few centimeters from his keen mouth. "Please… not out here…"

The distance between them and ready availability of precious air seemed to drain some of the frenzy from Erik's eyes. In one swift movement he was on his feet, carrying Christine towards the bedroom as if she weighed nothing. She yelped and then laughed, wrapping her legs tightly around his waist as their lips and tongue resumed their silent duet.

It seemed a lifetime, and yet not long enough, before her back hit the familiar softness of the velvet mattress. Erik's greater weight was strangely comforting— this time he did not seem worried about crushing her, and she didn't mind; in fact, she wanted him closer. Her nails left angry red lines along his back as she pulled him down on top of her, instinctively rocking her hips against his hard, straining length. He moaned into her mouth and she grinned, suddenly flipping him over so she lay on top of him.

She was vaguely aware of the throbbing at the tip of her elbow where she'd whacked it into the end table, but didn't notice that two of the new teacups had smashed to the floor until Erik stiffened, drawing in a deep, rigid breath through his nose. His hands, which had been gripping her waist, suddenly cupped her face firmly and pushed her off of him. Christine opened her eyes and looked down at him in confusion.

"What's going—?"

"This was a mistake," he grumbled, slipping out from underneath her and tossing her aside on the bed as if she were naught but a rag doll. Christine frowned tearfully up at him, entirely baffled by his sudden change in demeanor. She reached out and snatched one of his hands, clutching it between her own.

"Erik, what's _wrong_?" she sobbed. "Why do you keep doing this? Is-is this some kind of _game_ for you?"

Every muscle in his body tensed, and he yanked his hand away from her viciously, turning his back to her. "I… am not the one… playing games here… Christine," he panted, his voice dangerously calm. "And… quite frankly… I'm tired of them."

And without another word, he was gone.

Christine stared after him, still locked in an awkward position on her side, tears streaming like rivers down her flushed cheeks. How many times did he plan to leave her like this? The realization of the depth of her longing was stunning.

She loved him, and she wanted him… more than anything. Damn their past— damn every burden that separated them now! When he came back… if he came back… she would tell him everything.

_If he can ever forgive me… _

"Oh God," she breathed, burying her face in the pillows.

And silence reigned once again.

**_A/N: -cackles- I know, I know, I try your patience. As Sandy mentioned, almost all of you are glaring at me right now, utterly annoyed, wondering (like poor Christine) why the hell Erik pulled away this time. Well you'll just have to wait until the next chapter to find out, won't you? –evil authoress laughter- I PROMISE, this is the very last time I will dangle the string and yank it away! Next time they'll go through with it, and next time is much sooner than you think. MUCH sooner. :D I love you? –cowers, holding up a plate of cheesecake as a buffer- _**


	25. Intoxication

**A/N: Squee! Guess who's back! –starts singing Eminem despite herself-**

He tapped the end of a black pen pensively on his clean-shaven chin, peering down through thick spectacles at the accounts laid out before him. Occasionally he would lower the tip to the paper and scratch out a number or two, adding scribbled notations in the margins. A roaring fire glowed in the hearth, sending ripples of warmth throughout the small room. So perfect was the silence in the Persian's study that he could hear the muffled chirps of night bugs in the small, unkempt alley behind his apartment.

When the front door flew open with a reverberating clatter Nadir leapt impulsively to his feet, knocking over his ink pot, losing his spectacles, tripping over his robes, and sending his desk chair toppling to the floor in the process. There was a brief pause before pounding footsteps stormed down the hall, and a powerful fist came crashing against the opposite side of the study door.

"DAROGA!" A familiar voice roared.

Nadir groaned, picking up the chair and trying in vain to find his spectacles through dizzyingly blurred eyesight. "Damn you, Erik," he grumbled, "If they're broken…"

"Open this door at once!" Erik bellowed, his voice bordering on hysteria. Nadir sighed, finally finding his spectacles and perching them on the end of his nose. He turned to the closed door with a roll of his pale green eyes, smoothing out the creases in his hand-woven robe.

"Have you no sense of etiquette whatsoever, man?" he retorted irritably, flicking a speck of dust from his shoulder. "If I did not know the genius that lies beneath that thick skull of yours, I'd think you had been raised by gorillas."

Erik responded by smashing his fist into the door again. "I am not in the mood for your _taunts_, Daroga! Let—me_—in_!"

Nadir sighed and sat down heavily in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin— partially to adopt a look of jaded aggravation, and partially to prevent strangulation by a single, deft flick of catgut should Erik's temper prove to be exceedingly violent this time.

"It's _unlocked_, Erik. Did you even try the handle?"

There was a brief pause before the knob bent and clicked. A half-infuriated, half-sheepish looking Erik stood behind it, looking extremely reluctant to enter the Persian's study despite his command only a moment prior. Nadir watched him with raised eyebrows, waving one hand in a brief motion to sit before returning it warily to his chin. He schooled his expression into a neutral stance as he awaited an explanation for this unexpected intrusion. Erik neither sat on the proffered divan nor met the Persian's gaze, but did, in fact, take an uncommitted step over the threshold. And there he stood— his hands balled at his sides, his eyes ablaze but unfocused— perfectly still except for the hastened rise and fall of his chest.

_This is going to take awhile_, Nadir realized with an internal sigh.

He leaned back leisurely in his chair after a moment of lingering silence passed between them, lifting his right hand for examination before proceeding to fuss with a hangnail on his thumb. There was no sense in trying to force Erik to do anything; he could suggest, inquire, and openly beg for an explanation until he turned blue in the face, and it would make absolutely no difference whatsoever. The Persian was well-versed in the ways of his eccentric, arrogant comrade, and knew that when he was ready to speak, he would do so.

Until which time he would feign complete boredom, as if sitting through a tedious, lengthy conference. He understood that half of Erik's frequent rampages were composed of an instinct drilled into him from birth to constantly be the center of attention. Erik's mother had tried her best to ignore and oppress her son since the day he left her womb, from what Nadir could decipher from the bits and pieces of Erik's life story collected over the years. Erik's flair for the outrageous and dramatic was justifiable for this reason, he supposed, but he had learned to ignore it over the years. When he looked upon his friend in times like this he saw a deprived child seeking solace and advice from the mentor he never had. Of course, Erik would never in his life admit to such, but Nadir recognized and appreciated it all the same.

Twelve minutes slipped by without incident as each man became lost in his own private thoughts. The night bugs, which had fallen silent after the startling crashes from the previously serene apartment, resumed their cheerful song amongst the overgrown weeds. Two houses down, a young infant began to wail for its bedtime feeding. The echoing clatter of wooden wheels on cobblestone came and went. Still Erik showed no inclination to speak.

Nadir sighed absently, torn between boredom and an unquenchable curiosity. Of course he already knew the source of his friend's temper— who else but Christine had ever affected him so? He remembered vividly the night of the fire at the Opera Populaire, when Erik had stumbled through his door, doubled over with sobs. His recollection of the night's events had been jumbled at best— although Nadir had picked up on very few of the details, he recognized a single repeated word: "Christine." The rest was superfluous. Fortunately this was one of the very few instances in which he had the upper hand to his ingenious friend; he did not suffer the delusions of love.

This was not to say that he had never loved; his wife and son had been more precious to him than anything in this life or beyond. Ironically, it had been Erik's cool execution of murder in the face of Nadir's own incompetence that had freed little Reza's tortured soul. Despite the bitterness that clung to the unmentionable subject, he was forever indebted to his masked friend. Now Erik was undoubtedly faced with a similar ordeal, but selfish, ingrained instincts prevented him from knowing precisely how to love unconditionally. Christine Daaé was his first and last love, Nadir was sure of that much. It was his obligation now, as on the night of the fire, to assist and guide the overwhelmed and puzzled Erik to the best of his abilities.

Granted, he could only _help _Erik if he knew the specific problem.

Twelve minutes quickly turned into fifteen. Then twenty.

Nadir's stomach grumbled its protests vociferously. He had been working nonstop since noon, and it was nearing eight at night. He continued to study the vacant, stony expression on Erik's face for a minute more before climbing slowly to his feet.

"Come with me to the kitchen, Erik, and I'll make us some supper."

He did not wait for Erik's approval. Not that it mattered anyway; he followed at Nadir's heels like a shadow, silent and obliging.

Unfortunately the cramped food preparation space was terribly unaccommodating for more than one person at a time. He spun to face his dour guest with a nod of his head toward the small table in the adjoining dining room. This time Erik obeyed his wordless command, slumping into the chair and burying his head in his hands.

Nadir did his best to maintain the role of a good, cheerful Persian host, bustling around the kitchen as he began to prepare the evening meal.

"How does _bademjan_ sound? It's essentially beef, eggplant, and tomato…"

"I'm not hungry," came Erik's half-whispered voice for the first time in nearly half an hour. The Persian turned to face him with a scowl, but the expression faded at the tortured expression on the man's face. "You don't have any brandy, do you?"

"Muslims are forbidden to consume alcohol."

Desperation began to surface in Erik's voice. "Opium? Morphine?"

Nadir pursed his lips, debating whether or not to allow his friend to artificially escape this state of overt torment. He had seen this infidel sink into the deep, unfeeling serenity of a drug-induced stupor day in and day out for years at a time. The addiction had quickly spiraled out of control; it was a miracle Erik had not discovered some of the other, more lethal drugs available in Persia's black market.

Finally, he offered a slow, severe nod. The top cupboard above his stove was crammed with narcotics and herbs and remedies of all types— he sifted through several vials before finding the correctly labeled one. With a deep sigh, he filled a long syringe with the potent drug and flicked the tip to remove any excess air. Palpable relief and gratitude shone from Erik's stunningly green eyes as he handed over the source of temporary relief.

"You_ will_ eat supper too," he insisted firmly as Erik inserted the needle into a vein in his left arm and slowly injected the opium. An absent murmur of agreement rose from Erik's hunched form as he sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes rolling shut.

"Allah, forgive me," Nadir muttered as he returned to the food preparations. He didn't notice when his unorthodox house guest slipped from the kitchen area; only when the tortured pounding of piano keys reverberated throughout the apartment did he whirl about to find Erik gone.

_High as a cloud, and he still moves like a ghost and plays like an angel_, he mused with a shake of his head

Another half an hour and his stomach was positively roaring for satiation. The smell of slow-cooked meat filled the small apartment, making him feel a great deal more ravenous than he actually was. Erik seemed to have taken no notice; lost in his opium and his music, he had not moved from the piano. Vaguely Nadir began to wonder what Christine was doing. He frowned slightly at the thought while he ladled the supper into two large bowls. It was not safe or proper to leave a defenseless young woman alone in those dark cellars. Any sort of riffraff might accidentally stumble upon Erik's lair to find her asleep and vulnerable. The thought of anyone violating that sweet, delicate girl made him shudder, and he hurried to fetch a tray and bring the meal out to the living room. Hospitality only went so far; Erik had had ample time to brood and lick his wounds— it was time for him to explain himself.

He told him as much as he set the tray on the coffee table, waiting for his guest to take the customary first taste. At first Erik didn't notice his presence— not until Nadir physically placed himself between the musician and his instrument did he look up with clouded, angry eyes.

"What the hell do you think you're—?"

Nadir cut him off by shutting the lid over the keys and pointing to the couch. "Sit and eat. I've given you plenty of opportunity to think things over, Erik. Now I want an explanation."

The visible side of Erik's face curled in a sneer. "And I want to fuck Christine until she can't move, but we don't always get what we want, do we?"

His green eyes were delayed in their shock as Nadir grabbed him roughly by the front of his shirt and shoved him onto the couch. The Persian's own eyes glittered dangerously as he towered, flushed and panting, over his old friend. He knew better than to strike the self-appointed Angel of Doom; intoxicated or not, he could still snap his neck with a single jerk of the Punjab. Erik still bore the scars of a whip, a club, broken glass, his mother's belt… needless to say, he did not take well to being struck. Nevertheless, Nadir's rage was powerful; he would not hit Erik, but he could certainly shove him around without the slightest flicker of remorse.

"I don't care what vile drug is coursing through your veins right now, Erik," he hissed. "You will watch your language and treat the _Vicomtess_ with respect in this household!"

"Why bother?" Erik spat. "This is all a game, Daroga— a filthy, sick game. And I _refuse_ to lose it again."

_Now we're getting somewhere! _The Persian sank into his armchair as his fury ebbed a bit, wrapping one finger around his chin pensively. "But she came back," he said slowly. "Christine returned to you."

A small, humorless laugh escaped Erik. "Not for long."

"Why?" Nadir frowned. It took a great amount of force to keep from asking: _What did you do to her? _Instead he said, as meekly as possible through his still-present anger, "What happened?"

Erik's expression sobered as he lay back on the couch, closing his eyes. After awhile Nadir began to think that perhaps he had fallen asleep— his breathing was shallow, his thin form completely relaxed. Just as he was about to rise and take his dinner from the coffee table, however, his opium-calmed friend began to speak quietly and steadily.

"If it wasn't Rome, it would have been something else. I should have realized that from the very beginning."

"Rome?" Nadir pried. "What about Rome?"

Erik unfurled his fingers elegantly in a gesture of dismissal. "I made her career and destroyed it. She's leaving with the Girys at the end of the month."

"To Rome?"

He raised his eyebrows in annoyance, the lids still lightly closed. "Your cunning never fails to impress. _Yes_, you idiot, to Rome. Italy. Italia. _Sarà diva— una stella. Nessuno mostro sarà in grado di fermarla questo tempo._"

Nadir fumbled in the depths of his memory, trying to conjure up what little Italian he had learned in his travels for the shah. Something about a diva… a star… that was all he could get. Partially exasperated and partially intrigued by Erik's loose tongue, he rested his chin in his palm and continued drilling him with prompts.

"Have you spoken to her about this?"

"I am not so heartless as to crush her dreams a second time."

"I'll take that as a 'no.'"

Erik opened one eye and glared at him. "And what would you have me do, Daroga? Beg at her feet not to leave me again? Make an absolute_ fool_ out of myself for the second time in a year?"

A faint smile lifted the Persian's lips. "They say only fools fall in love; you have nothing to lose."

Erik sighed. "It wasn't a choice. I've never known such helplessness in my life. It's as if… as if she drains the intellect from me with a single glance."

"And you love it."

"Sometimes," he agreed. "Other times I… I don't know…"

"You're frightened by it."

Silence. Nadir had hardly expected him to respond in the affirmative, but the understanding was there nonetheless.

"So what will you do? Simply…" He waved his hand in circles, "Let her slip through your fingers again? Because we both remember how well _that_ went the first time!"

Now both of Erik's catlike eyes were open, but narrowed. "Who am I to keep her locked underground?" He sighed again. "She is so full of life, Daroga. The Living Corpse has no right to claim her for his tomb."

"As I recall," Nadir said with a slight smile, "Hades managed to find a compromise."

He shook his head sadly. "I am no god. If Christine has taught me one thing, it is that."

The Persian was quietly impressed. Erik's ego was legendary— this was a remarkable woman, indeed, if she had managed to tame it. "So you've decided, then. May Allah grant the Vicomtess an enjoyable, prosperous career in Italy." He spread his arms in a gesture of defeat and stood, taking the supper which called to his churning stomach. Once he had shoveled half of the _bademjan _into his greedy mouth, he glanced up to find Erik glaring daggers at him.

"What?" he asked around a mouthful of eggplant.

"I'm waiting for the catch."

"What catch?"

"Don't play stupid!" Erik growled. "You can't have spoken your peace."

Nadir raised an eyebrow in amusement, swallowing another bite before suggesting shrewdly, "Perhaps you're waiting for me to convince you to keep Christine at your side so that the blame rests on my shoulders, not yours, if the plans fall through?"

"I did not say—"

"In so many words," he finished smugly before draining the rest of the bowl's contents. When Erik did not object, he leaned forward at the hips and pressed his fingertips into a steeple again. "Very well, Erik. I'll try again." He drew in a deep breath as he collected an argument.

"Do you love her?"

"Do you enjoy asking ridiculous questions?" Erik countered.

"Evidently. Answer me."

"Yes, Daroga, for God's sake!"

"And does she love you?"

Erik was silent for a long moment before answering in a whisper, "How could she?" There was another extended pause before he continued, "I was so sure she hated me after _Don Juan_, but she came back… and then I was hopeful until you told me of her miscarriage… my aid was _needed_, not wanted. But then… she kissed me…"

"She kissed you?" The Persian perked up suddenly, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "When?"

He licked his lips absently, studying the intricate rug between them. "Once when she had a nightmare, once in the middle of the night, and then an hour ago…"

"Wait a moment!" Nadir flung his arms into the air, his expression one of utter bewilderment. "She kissed you? Just now… just before you came?"

"How many times must I say it? YES!"

"Then why in the name of Allah are you _here_?"

Erik sat up, his features twisted in a scowl. "I did the honorable thing, Daroga. She was… willing… to lie with me…"

Now the Persian was positively incredulous. "And you left her there?"

"Yes!"

"_Why_?"

"It was those goddamned teacups!"

Nadir blinked once, completely lost. Had the opium made him delusional? His heart sank as he began to wonder if perhaps this entire ordeal had been a fabrication of Erik's intoxicated mind…

"Teacups?" he echoed hopelessly.

"I swear, Daroga, if I have to repeat myself one more time…"

"Alright, yes, yes, teacups. What about them?"

Erik sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "We were on the bed, kissing… heatedly…" A faint blush tinted his cheeks as he spoke, as if he could hardly believe the words himself. "And she accidentally bumped the table. Two teacups fell to the floor and smashed. It took me a moment to acknowledge the sound, but when I did, I thought of Meg, which made me think of Rome…" He trailed off, waving one hand and shrugging.

"… And?"

His eyes snapped up to meet the Persian's irritably. "What do you mean '_and_?'"

"And… remind me why you left again?" Nadir prompted in bewilderment.

"ROME, Daroga! Must I explain every last detail to you? Christine—is—leaving—me—at—the—end—of—the—month. Forever!"

"Did she say so?"

Erik's conviction wavered slightly before he frowned again. "She doesn't need to. Why would she pass up an opportunity like this?"

The Persian buried his head in his hands with a groan. Silence ensued for a minute before his shoulders began to shake. Laughter seized his aging form, squeezing the air from his lungs until tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. Erik's demands to know what precisely was so funny only made him laugh harder until he was doubled over the arm of his chair.

"What the hell is so goddamned _funny_?"

"You!" Nadir howled, slapping one knee for emphasis. "Erik, this might be the most ridiculous problem you've ever come to me with."

"Well I'm so glad I could entertain you with the decay of my love life," Erik said stonily, rising to his feet. "But if you don't mind, I think I will decline supper and—"

"Oh, sit _down_, man! You wanted a reason to keep Christine, and I have come up with the most legitimate motive in the world."

"Fascinating. Unfortunately, by this point I don't believe I even care anymore…"

"Has it ever occurred to you," he said to Erik's retreating back, "That perhaps she was planning on declining the offer of the ladies Giry…"

"I already told you, it's preposterous!"

"… because she is in love with you?"

This bold suggestion stopped Erik in his tracks. The quiet chirps of the night bugs were the only sound in the room for a long moment before he turned, his green eyes wide with a combination of hope and hesitation.

"Do you… do you truly think so?" He sounded so much like a child in that moment, asking for the reassurances of a parent. Nadir was only too happy to give them to his yearning friend.

Rising to his feet, he smiled warmly. "Who initiated the kisses, Erik?"

"… She did."

"And who did Christine turn to when her world crumbled?"

"Me." His voice was barely a whisper.

"It would seem, my friend," Nadir said, placing a hand on Erik's shoulder, "That you have every means to fight for her love." He looked his old friend squarely in the eyes. "Go back to Christine. Tell her how you feel. _Talk_ to her about Rome! Women love to give vent to their ideas and emotions, Erik— you have only to make a chip in the concrete before the whole dam breaks. If you express how much she means to you— how much you need her— my every instinct tells me she will give her heart to you."

"But I did," Erik whispered. "I already did. _Don Juan Triumphant_…"

"Was a demand. You were a fool that night, Erik. Threatening Christine's childhood friend was _not_ the way to go about winning her heart. I know there is more to you than violence, and I believe she, too, has begun to see the nurturing, tender side of you over these past few weeks. For Allah's sake, don't ruin it! Be gentle… respect her side of the argument even if you don't agree with it. She has been offered a great opportunity. Do not twist my words and fall prey to arrogance. Let her tell _you _that she loves you— don't tell _her_."

Slowly, Erik nodded. After a pause he asked quietly, "But you truly believe it, Daroga? That she might… she might be able to love… someone like me?"

"You have a good soul beneath that cold mask of yours, Erik," the Persian told him kindly. "No one has ever been able to beat it from you, praise be to Allah. Christine is a fortunate woman to be in such fine company."

His words seemed to be exactly what Erik needed to hear. A deep gratitude shone from his green eyes as he nodded. It would have been unnatural for the two men to embrace, but in that instant Nadir seriously believed Erik might wrap his arms around him. The moment passed as quickly as it had come, however, and instead they clasped one another's hand firmly before a familiar restlessness seemed to coil like a spring in Erik's form. The opium had run its course, leaving his eyes bright with anticipation.

"You'll forgive me, Daroga, if I ask to join you for supper another time? A beautiful woman is waiting for me at home, undoubtedly wanting an explanation for my hasty departure."

"Oh dear," Nadir sighed with a wry smile, eyeing the remaining dish of _bademjan. _"Whoever will I find to finish up the rest of this food?" His growling stomach seemed to answer the question.

"I'm sure you'll manage somehow." Erik retreated into the hallway, bowing his head politely. The Persian returned the gesture, clasping his hands in front of him.

"Have a pleasant evening, Erik."

"For your sake, let's hope so," he replied, his eyes glinting jestingly. His expression sobered after a moment, and he hesitated before saying two astonishing words: "Thank you."

Nadir tried not to show his surprise as he nodded, and Erik slipped out into the street. He watched from the window until César and his rider disappeared into the night.

A deep, lingering sigh escaped him as he returned to his warm, quiet study. Seconds later his quill began to scratch rhythmically across the account spreadsheet as if it had never been interrupted. He smiled and shook his head as he worked, offering a silent but heartfelt prayer:

_Allah, may your bountiful mercy touch this poor infidel. He has never known love, and this woman might be his last chance. Please, for the sake of your humble servant, bless him tonight._

**A/N: I. Love. Nadir. SO MUCH! –huggles him- This story just wasn't the same without him, so I had to give him a guest appearance. He'll be back, I promise!**

**As for those of you pining for E/C goodness… your wait is nearly over! Sometime this weekend, methinks. :D Does that make up for me being evil and torturing you? –pouty smile- **

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	26. Love

**A/N: Okay, before we delve into this chapter, let me try to clear up a few things regarding the previous one. There were a lot of comments about the way Erik took the opium; I have certainly never done it myself, but I did some historical research and found that injecting opium became extremely popular in the mid 1800s and continued into the early 1900s. I know that NOW opium is smoked, but back then it was a fad, so to speak, to take it through a vein. That said, I know it didn't seem like Erik reacted very strongly to it— I tried to show the passing of time while Nadir cooked and Erik played, but evidently I didn't make that clear enough. By the time the Persian sits down to talk to him, it's already been awhile since he took the drug, so the effects aren't as strong. As of this chapter, his opium high has pretty much dwindled. Everybody clear now?**

**Alrighty then! Enjoy this chapter— it's pretty much the turning point of the fic, though it's FAR from over! **

She sat at the organ, her back to him, stroking her fingers lovingly over the keys. Her sharp shoulder blades rose and fell erratically as she played a few soft chords. Erik watched her from the dark entrance to his lair, not yet willing to make his presence known. His breath escaped him in a shuddering sigh through parted lips, and though the sound was not nearly loud enough to overpower the organ, Christine whirled about to face him.

His breath caught in his chest at the sight of her. The dying candles illuminated her creamy skin and brought out a reddish tint in her chestnut curls. Her cheeks were flushed and damp, salty tracks bearing witness to the tears she'd shed over the past few hours. Erik wanted nothing more than to run to her and kiss them away, but an insistent voice in his head told him to wait— that there were things that needed to be said before the inevitable outcome of the evening came to pass. Already he could feel warmth beginning to spread down from his abdomen, but he purposely ignored it in a rare moment of patience. He had waited too long for this night to rush through it.

He was caught entirely off-guard when Christine's brow furrowed and she marched over to him, coming within centimeters of his face.

"You!" she roared, grasping his shirt in her surprisingly strong little fists. "You… you—you _bastard_! How dare you! Do you really think that you can keep seducing me like this, and right when I'm ready to give in to you and your sick little game, just—just leave me there pining while you go off and have a good laugh? Well you know what? I'm not going to do this anymore! I give up— I give in! You won, Erik, _you won_! Are you happy now? What do you want from me? WHAT? Do you want me to admit that I was wrong— that I should have chosen you that night? Fine! I was wrong! But that gives you _no right_ to keep doing this to me! To… to say something like that and just storm off… I didn't know where you'd gone or what you were doing or… or if you'd ever come back or—"

"Christine!" he barked before she became even more hysterical. She jerked slightly before bowing her head. A raucous sob caught in her throat as she released her death grip on his shirt, her hands falling limply at her sides. The sound tugged at his heartstrings, and his eyes and voice softened immediately. It was instinctual to curl his forefinger around her chin and lift her face to his. Swimming brown eyes met his green ones, and his heart gave another painful wrench as a large tear slipped down her cheek.

"I will always," he whispered gently, "_always_ return to you."

A brief flash of pain sparked in her eyes before her muscles tensed and she turned away, running a hand through her tangled mane of curls.

"You can't promise me that," she said, her voice wavering, threatening to break. "Raoul…" She swallowed. "Raoul said the same thing before he got on that boat. He said when he came home we would go for a ride in the country and have a picnic. He promised me." Her voice finally broke, and she spun to face him, her teary eyes narrowed. "My _father_ told me he would be sitting in the first row when I made my debut at the Opera Populaire. He started coughing the next morning. He was dead three weeks later." A fresh stream of tears trickled down her cheeks, and she drew in a sharp breath through trembling lips. "So you'll forgive me if I have a hard time believing in that promise." She sighed, but the sound caught in her throat and ended in a sob. "I can't lose you, Erik. I can't!"

His breathing grew shallow as he stared incredulously at her. It felt as if a spring was coiled around his chest, constricting his lungs, refusing to let air through. The question scorched his tongue, demanding to be asked, even if the answer would shatter the remnants of his tattered heart. He had to know; he had to bring his soul to peace.

"So… you're not going to Rome, then?"

Christine's eyes snapped up to his, widening in fear. "How did you—?"

"Madame Giry told me," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. He studied her eyes, trying to find the answer before she vocalized it. Unfortunately Christine turned away from him before he could uncover it, and he was forced to the edge of his sanity as she crossed to the opposite side of the room. She stopped in front of the carefully sculpted wax replica of herself and merely stared at it for a moment. Then, so slowly that it hardly looked as if she was moving, she reached up and lifted the veil reverently from its curly head and placed it on her own. An unidentifiable, powerful emotion flooded her eyes as she turned back to face him.

"No, Erik," she whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

He couldn't breathe. The lair was spinning, growing hazier by the second. His heart felt as if it would bleed itself right out of his chest. There was too much space between them; without registering the movement, he closed it in a matter of seconds. Christine's arms opened to him instantly in a warm embrace, her long pale fingers gripping the back of his shirt as she nestled into his chest.

Erik trembled uncontrollably as he pulled her close, squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face in the crook of her neck. This could not be real… he held an angel of mercy in his arms, the love of his life, the answer to his life's unheard, unanswered prayers. She was not his captive or his prisoner— she had been offered the opportunity of a lifetime, and turned it down… for him. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks and into her hair as he clutched desperately to her, as if God would suddenly realize his error and snatch his angel away from him again.

His incredulity and awe only mounted as she, too, began to sob, pressing delicate kisses to the skin beneath her lips. "I'm sorry," she breathed, her petite body shaking beneath his hands.

He tried to quiet her, placing a gentle kiss of his own at the spot where her neck and collarbone met. "Don't dwell on it, Christine. It's over. It's all behind us now."

"Please," she insisted, pulling back slightly to look up into his eyes. "Let me finish." Her eyes became distant and pained as she stared across the months, back to that terrible night. More than anything, Erik wanted to kiss that agony away, to drown her in his love until she forgot every excruciating memory that had led to the night of _Don Juan_. Somehow he managed to restrain himself upon her request, waiting semi-patiently for an explanation which he found completely unnecessary. But if Christine needed this to heal the wounds of the past… well, so be it.

_Well, what do you know? _He mused. _The Daroga actually knew what he was talking about. One chip and the dam breaks._

He was quite sure that Christine was unaware of the torturous movement of her fingers up and down his arms. The pads of her fingertips just barely skirted the bare skin, leaving goose bumps in their wake. Still her eyes were unfocused as she stared off at some unseen point, collecting her thoughts. Finally her hands stopped their scorching assault on his senses and lightly gripped his forearms as if to steel herself for what she was about to say. Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, she began to speak quietly.

"I was a fool, Erik. A faltering, naïve little child. You had spoiled and sheltered me for so long… I had everything I could ever possibly want. _Mon Dieu_, you even gave me my father back! But I took you for granted, Erik— your devotion, your music, your endless gifts. I wanted a lover, a physical, tangible being. And there was Raoul… handsome, wealthy, kind Raoul. Oh, please don't look at me like that! Any woman would have wanted him, Erik, but… but what I didn't realize at the time was that my heart, my _soul_, was already yours. And suddenly you _were_ tangible, and so devastatingly handsome…"

He laughed out loud then. "Don't mock me, Christine…"

"I'm not!" She insisted with such sincerity that he was almost convinced. Erik settled for raising an eyebrow as she continued with her impassioned rant.

"And I… I was terrified of you, Erik. You were so passionate, so seductive… you made me burn every time you looked at me. My… my dreams at night were…" She blushed a deep red, shaking her head. "… Inappropriate for a good Christian girl! But Raoul was safe, predictable, and so very kind to me. He reminded me of my father. It wasn't until after I'd made my decision that I realized that I loved him very much… but I wasn't _in love_ with him." Her eyes met his and held them. "I've told you that we were happy, and we were. I was living with my best friend, Erik. But…" She licked her lips absently, the blood rushing to her cheeks again. Her voice faded to a whisper as she leaned closer to him, pressing her lips to his ear. "When he made love to me at night, Erik, I used to close my eyes and pretend it was you over me… inside me."

Erik moaned at this revelation, pulling her body tightly to his so that there was no mistake of what her words were doing to him. She sighed breathily against the sensitive skin of his neck before resting her warm lips on the spot where his pulse throbbed.

"I am not a child anymore, Erik," Christine whispered into his heartbeat. "And as a woman, I have made my choice. I want you… I choose you." Her hands traveled to the base of his neck and pulled his face down to hers.

"_I love you_," she breathed into his lips before parting them with her tongue, delving deep into his mouth.

Erik's heart swelled to its breaking point, unable to contain the unbearable ecstasy and desire and love that exploded in his chest from those three simple words. He had waited his whole life to hear them… and now that he had, only one thing remained to make his life complete, to make him a true man once and for all.

And this time, he would not pull away until they were one.

**A/N: The famous three words – can we say "FINALLY"? **

**Read on, my lovelies… **


	27. Seduction

**A/N: Well… here we are! You have no idea how much pressure was involved in writing this one stinking chapter. Half the people reading this story are doing so only for this single chapter… and this is my first time EVER writing rated M material. **

**That said, this chapter has the most graphic adult content of this story. I did my best to write it tastefully, with a great deal of reverence, but if it's not your cup of tea, please feel free to move along in the story. You already know what happens, right? ;) **

Her body was on fire. Erik's slow, drugging kisses had numbed her mind and sharpened her senses; by now she was painfully aware of his arousal pressing into the soft flesh of her stomach. Erik moaned into their kiss as his warm tongue slid smoothly along hers, inciting a matching response deep in her own throat. She wrapped herself around him, pulling viciously at his shirt as her desire to be closer to him grew stronger each moment.

Evidently Erik had the same idea. As he lifted her slightly off of her feet Christine locked her legs around his waist, taking the opportunity to drive her tongue deeper into his mouth. His hands were everywhere at once, exploring her muscular dancer's body… tangled in her hair one moment, brushing her shoulders the next, then trailing down to her hips before skirting along her silken thighs. In turn she hooked one elbow around his neck, pulling his mouth firmly against hers, and twined the other hand in his soft brown hair.

She was slowly going mad with the need to feel him inside of her, but Erik seemed intent on taking his precious time. Whenever she would grow frantic he would follow suit for a few seconds, matching her fervor and passion thrust for thrust and moan for moan, before gently stroking her back and softening his kisses, bringing her temporarily down from her impulsive highs with uncharacteristic patience. She assumed this was his first time with a woman, but she had already known the pleasures of a man's flesh. Raoul had made love to her with a mildness to match his temperament, but grateful as she was for his gentleness, she had always longed for something more— and she realized now that that something was Erik's unbridled passion. She began to grow frustrated by his lack of vehemence now; seduction was entirely uncalled for— she was already burning for him.

"Erik," she begged as he pressed her back into the cavern's cold stone wall. His kiss deepened in response to her guttural plea, his warm fingers working a scorching trail along her outer thighs as he pushed the skirt of her nightgown up to her waist. Christine broke away from his mouth as her heart began to hammer expectantly, drawing in open-mouthed gasps of much needed air. For once he did not crush his lips to another patch of skin; Erik nuzzled her collarbone and rested his forehead on her shoulder, panting just as hard.

"Christine," he gasped against her skin. "If you have— any doubts— you should— stop now—because— I— sure as hell— won't…"

"Thank God!" she laughed before capturing him between her tongue and upper lip. She felt him smile before his own tongue surged forward to tangle with hers, all sense of reserve tossed to the wind. At last he seemed to let go of his tight rein on his emotions as his mouth claimed hers with reckless abandon. The powerful desire that had been bottled inside of him for decades surfaced in a surge of passion as he pinned her tightly to the wall, ravaging her with his tongue and teeth and skilled musician's hands. Christine cried his name desperately as he began to grind his hips into hers, responding in turn with the rhythmic rocking of her own. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to be rid of the layers separating them; she clawed at his shirt, wrenching away from his mouth only long enough to pull it over his head before crushing her lips to his again. For the moment she was satisfied and fascinated with exploring the strange, thin lines of raised skin along his bare back. Stripped of her ability to think by Erik's impassioned assault on her body, it took her a moment to recognize what those odd lines were.

She gasped, yanking almost violently away from him. A film of hot tears gathered in her wide brown eyes as she stared up into his confused green ones. It only took Erik a moment to realize what had upset her. He frowned, pulling back enough so that she could stand on her own two feet. Reluctantly Christine disentangled her limbs from his and slid to the ground, allowing him to pull her into a warm, gentle embrace.

"My poor Erik," she murmured against the soft, firm flesh of his chest.

"Don't, Christine," he pleaded, planting a lingering kiss on the top of her head. "I don't need pity. The only thing I need tonight is you."

"Then you shall have what you desire," she whispered as he brushed his thumbs along her cheekbones. "I am yours to do with as you will."

Erik grinned, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He pressed warm, gentle kisses to the tender skin, working his way up to her ear, where he whispered, "I have a few ideas."

A surge of blood rushed to Christine's cheeks, and she couldn't suppress a matching grin of her own. "Such as?"

She cried out when suddenly he was gone from her side, moving toward the entrance to her bedroom with the soundless speed of a true phantom. A mysterious smile glittered in his eyes as he wheeled about to face her, beckoning to her with a single finger.

"Come and see," he said simply before disappearing through the curtain.

Christine didn't have to be told twice. She ran her fingers through her mussed curls as she trotted breathlessly after him, her cheeks flushed in anticipation.

At first she could not make out a single thing. The dying candlelight cast elongated shadows, bathing the room in a dim golden glow. A tense, heavy silence hung over the lair, broken only by the erratic pounding of Christine's heart. She stepped hesitantly into the center of the room, her eyes darting hopelessly from one iridescent shadow to another. Her lips tried to form Erik's name, but her vocal chords were paralyzed by an overwhelming combination of desire and terror.

She nearly jumped out of her skin as the stone walls around her began to rumble with the deep, rich voice of her Angel of Music.

_You have come here_

_In pursuit of your deepest urge_

_In pursuit of that wish which 'til now_

_Has been silent…_

The candles themselves seemed to whisper,

_Silent…_

Her eyes closed of their own accord, every nerve in her body attuned to the rhythm and vibrations of Erik's song. When his voice soared in volume and intensity, her heart gave a magnificent leap, as if bound to each note by an invisible string.

_I have brought you_

_That our passions may fuse and merge!_

_In your mind you've already succumbed to me_

_Dropped all defenses,_

_Completely succumbed to me…_

Finally she found her voice, though it was little more than a hoarse, choked whisper. "God, yes," she breathed, tilting her head back slightly. Each perfect note seemed to further unravel the seams that kept her sanity intact. She could not stand this much longer…

His voice was in her left ear now. Christine could feel his breath against the skin, but when she turned to face him the voice shifted direction, singing in her other ear.

_Now you are here with me,_

_No second thoughts,_

_You've decided…_

_Decided…_

"Erik, please," she begged, the words darkened with lust until they were unrecognizable as her own. She could have sworn she heard Erik smirking as his voice moved restlessly about the room, transferring from one object to another.

_Past the point of no return_

_No backward glances!_

_Our games of make-believe are at an end_

_Past all thought of if or when_

_No use resisting!_

_Abandon thought and let the dream descend_

Christine braced herself for the next verse, remembering vividly what had happened onstage. When Erik's strong hand had gripped her neck she had been sure she would collapse, but his arms had been ready to catch and support her when her knees gave out. Her heart thundered in her chest as she waited expectantly for his hands to resume their infliction of sweet torment on her body…

_What raging fire shall flood the soul?_

_What rich desire unlocks its door?_

_What sweet seduction lies before us?_

But only his heated whispers caressed her skin this time, and her unbridled emotions finally broke free, drowning out every last shred of reason within her. His enrapturing voice lingered tauntingly over the word "seduction," making her shiver with need… his voice alone was not enough; she wanted to feel his body pressed against her, pressed _inside_ her. She felt his fingertip graze the curve of her spine, but whirled around to find only darkness. Her gaze darted feverishly around the room in a fruitless attempt to pinpoint his location. Unfortunately, she had fallen madly in love with a master of deception, and soon frustrated tears brimmed in her eyes. The throbbing ache between her legs invoked a sob from her raw throat, and she cried out to him, "_Please_…"

At last he took pity on her; his arms snaked seemingly out of thin air, enveloping her waist and pulling her tightly against him. Christine was only slightly relieved to find that his desire for her had not dwindled in the least— no doubt her fevered pleas had served to heighten his arousal. She began to writhe as his warm, moist lips folded over the edge of her ear, tilting her head to the side to allow him easier access. Erik bit down softly, but almost immediately his tongue darted out to alleviate the sting. He pulled away slightly to nuzzle her neck before whispering the last verse so softly that she wasn't sure if she had imagined it or not.

_Past the point of no return_

_The final threshold_

_What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn?_

_Beyond the point of no return_

For several seemingly endless moments, the only sound in the room was Erik's soft, strained breathing in her ear and the frantic drumming of her heart. With deliberate, agonizing slowness, he trailed the tips of his fingers from their resting place on her hips up along the curve of her abdomen, and finally to brush across the swell of her breasts. Christine gasped, tilting her head back to rest on his shoulder as her nipples went rigid beneath his unbearably gentle touch. She wanted to be rid of this damned nightshift once and for all, to feel Erik's warm golden skin against hers. Her breathing had grown labored, and came out in a passionate gasp as she told him as much.

Erik smiled into her neck, running his hands lightly along her sides in a movement that was driving her mad. "Sing," he commanded huskily. "Try the song again. I believe you will finally understand what I was speaking about earlier today."

_Earlier today? _She could hardly believe it— it seemed months since they had practiced and nearly perfected the same tune at the organ.

"I can't!" she rasped with a lethargic shake of her head.

His smirk only widened as he swirled his tongue in agonizing circles along the back of her ear. "Of course you can. Passion will only improve your voice… do not fight it. I want to hear you sing."

"Erik," Christine panted. "You don—don't under…stand…"

He chuckled amusedly in her ear, suddenly grasping her thigh firmly and pressing his straining length against her. "Oh, don't I?" Her only response was a deep moan, thickened by longing. "Sing for me, Christine," he purred. She was trapped now, cornered by his will. Her need to meld with him was eating her alive—she finally understood that the only way to end her prolonged suffering was to obey his absurd demand.

Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, she began to sing tremulously.

_You have brought me_

_To that moment when words run dry_

_To that moment when speech disappears into silence,_

_Silence…_

Erik's breathing grew heavy as he kissed his way down her shoulder, his fingertips barely skirting her pale skin just ahead of his mouth. He paused for a moment at the sleeve of her nightgown, and Christine sucked in a sharp breath and held it.

"Go on," he hissed, gently fingering the lace seam.

"God, Erik, I _can't_—"

He withdrew his lips and hands entirely, moving back a few centimeters. "I shall continue when you do," he said with a cool conviction that belied his own, barely-restrained desire to take her where she stood.

Christine's eyes overflowed with tears, her throat burning at the injustice of this cruel game. God damn it, she was already _seduced_! Her entire body quaked and throbbed for him… wasn't that enough?

This time her voice was strangled with frustrated sobs as she reluctantly complied:

_I have come here_

_Hardly knowing the reason why…_

She drew out the last note much longer than necessary, relishing the sensation of his warm, wet mouth as it moved down her shoulder, lowering the sleeve as he went. Painful as it was to sing around her clenched throat muscles, she didn't dare stop. There was no way she could wriggle out of finishing the song… but it dawned on her as Erik whimpered against her arm that perhaps she could give him a good dose of his own medicine— or poison, as the case seemed to be.

_In my mind I've already imagined_

_Our bodies entwining, defenseless and silent_

A cruel smirk pulled at her lips as she dropped both shoulders, allowing her nightgown to drop in a pool around her ankles. Erik gasped and then moaned, pressing his hands into her firm stomach to pull her bare back against his chest. Her satisfied smile only widened as she brushed her own fingertips up his thigh, stopping just short of the bulge of his trousers. He cried out and shuddered, reaching down to grasp her wrist and move her hand around him. Christine quickly took the opportunity to whirl around, her eyes dancing seductively in the fading candlelight.

_Now I am here with you_

_No second thoughts_

_I've decided_

_Decided…_

Even as an embarrassed, self-conscious blush tinted her cheeks, she pressed on unflinchingly, gently running her forefinger in light, circular patterns from the nape of his neck to the fleshy planes of his chest and down the firm ripples of his abdomen, following the dust of brown curls to his waistline.

Now it was his turn to choke out her name, unwittingly inclining toward her, his lips parting to draw in more air. She leaned in to him with a gleam of triumph in her eyes, tracing the same pattern of her finger with her lips, and eventually her tongue. In between her slow, torturous descent along his torso, she continued to sing, ironically unable to stop where moments prior she had begged to do just that.

_Past the point of no return_

_No going back now!_

_Our passion play has now, at last, begun_

Emboldened by his groans and feverish pleas, Christine trailed her fingers along the front of his trousers, shyly exploring the length of him. Erik hissed sharply through clenched teeth and suddenly lashed out, grabbing her wrists in his powerful hands.

"Enough," he rasped. She hardly had time to react before he pulled her fully against him, crushing his mouth into hers. With a guttural cry she met his ravenous kiss, driving her tongue forward in a suggestive pattern of thrusts before her hips mimicked their movement, making it unmistakably clear what she wanted.

At last Erik began to walk her backwards to the bed, his passionate assault on her lips never faltering. She felt the backs of her knees hit the pewter frame and buckle, and everything became a white haze for a moment as Erik fell on top of her, pressing her into the velvet mattress. It only took her a few seconds to recover, and she hastily tried to make up for lost time by wrapping her legs around his hips, pulling him even closer. Erik's breathing had picked up speed until he was no longer able to kiss her— he jerked his head away, gasping for air, and once again grabbed her wrists. Christine stared up at him in confusion as he pinned her arms above her head and shook his own.

"Christine," he panted, "We… have to… slow down… or I… won't make it…" His eyes begged her for understanding, and he bent his head to place a reverent kiss at the nape of her neck. "Sing, _mon ange_… one last time…"

She could not refuse the look of pitiful desperation in those beloved jade orbs, though every last fiber of her being was screaming for him. Swallowing hard, she took a steadying breath and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the glorious pressure digging into her lower abdomen.

_Past all thought of right or wrong,_

_One final question:_

_How long should we two wait before we're one?_

Erik silenced her with a gentle kiss, the previous frenzy dissolved as quickly as it had come. His lips lingered sweetly on hers before he pulled back just far enough to stare into her eyes.

"I have waited a lifetime for this night, Christine," he murmured, tenderly stroking her chestnut curls. "And you have been so patient with me." His voice dropped to a breathy whisper as he lowered his lips to her stomach and down further still. "Allow me to express my gratitude…"

Christine did not know what to expect from her ingenious tutor, who had always managed to evoke unforeseen passion and emotion from within her, but when his mouth neared her most secret area she instinctively squeezed her legs together, staring at him in confusion. Raoul had never done anything like this before; it was entirely new and frightening… but somehow the look in Erik's eyes comforted her nerves. He was afraid too, but there was a faint glint in his eyes which suggested that he knew precisely what he was doing.

"Don't hide yourself from me, _mon amour_," he told her gently. Christine stared into his eyes for a few moments more before hesitantly opening to him, trying to brace herself for whatever would come next.

There was a brief pause before he lowered his mouth and took his first curious taste of her. His warm tongue found the tiny mound at the apex of her thighs and Christine yelped, her eyes going wide. Erik moved away and looked up at her uncertainly.

"Did I hurt you?"

She continued to stare at him, wide-eyed, before slowly shaking her head. "I don't think so… I… I don't know…"

Erik placed a soft kiss to the inside of her thigh before trying again as gently as possible. This time a blinding, white hot sensation ripped through Christine, somewhere between excruciating pain and the most intense pleasure she had ever known. A long, low moan escaped her as his deft tongue began to work its magic on her. Primal instincts immediately took over; she bucked her hips against his mouth, clawing at his head to pull him harder against her. She seemed to be unraveling from the inside out, and finally she could take no more; she felt her insides splinter in an explosion of unimaginable pleasure and her body lurched forward and shuddered as she screamed Erik's name.

Christine wasn't sure how much time passed as she lay there, drowning in this new, thrilling sensation. Contrary to the experience itself, she now felt perfectly at rest… almost drowsy, as if a narcotic were running through her veins. At last she understood what it was that she had been longing for, what torturous bliss her body was capable of when provoked. She almost forgot that Erik was still waiting patiently for her to recover, so lost was she in her own private thoughts.

Her sleepy, ecstatic eyes snapped open and found his. Erik perched at the foot of the bed, studying her with a wry smile. She returned it twofold and pushed herself upright, throwing her arms around his waist.

"_Mon Dieu_, Erik," she laughed into his chest. "God… I had… I had no idea…"

He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, holding her close. "You are pleased, then?"

"More than you could ever imagine." She rose to her knees to peck his lips, positively beaming. It took her a moment to notice that he was trembling, his eyes still darkened with lust. Her eyes darted down of their own accord, and widened as she realized the extent of her selfishness. "Oh my… you… you… we haven't…"

"No," he interrupted, pasting on a brave smile. "I wanted to give you pleasure before taking my own." A strained laugh squeaked past his throat. "Ladies first, as always."

Christine's heart melted at his sacrifice, and she brought her lips to his tenderly. "Thank you," she breathed into the kiss seconds before Erik lost his inhuman self-control. She was surprised at how quickly her nerves ignited again, as if the two of them had never stopped. The next few moments passed in a red haze as he laid her back on the bed and fumbled desperately to remove the last article of clothing separating them. When his trembling fingers seemed incapable of undoing the buttons Christine rushed to his aid, freeing him at last and pushing the troublesome trousers down to his knees. Erik kicked them aside and broke their fevered kiss momentarily, looking apologetically into her brown eyes.

"I don't… I mean, I've never…"

Christine smiled gently, reaching up to brush a stray lock of brown hair from his eyes. "I'm honored," she whispered, her fingers moving to stroke the twisted flesh of the right side of his face. "You aren't the only one who has been waiting for this night." Her smile softened as she pulled him close and whispered almost inaudibly, "_Touch me, trust me_…"

She threw her head back and gasped as he entered her in one fluid movement. Erik was very well endowed, to say the least, and he filled her completely, as if God had made them for one another. Erik stared down at her with uncertain, wide eyes until she smiled and nodded her reassurance. He was unbelievably gentle at first, watching Christine protectively to make sure that his mild thrusts did not hurt her. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry, and wound up doing neither, instead guiding him patiently, arching her hips and uttering breathy sighs to encourage him to move deeper inside of her. After a few minutes animalistic instincts finally took control, and he began to drive into her with deep, powerful strokes that left her gasping for breath. Her fingernails dug into the soft flesh of his shoulders as she felt herself spiraling into oblivion again. Consumed by passion, she writhed beneath him, her breathless moans and screams of ecstasy rising into the night as she neared her breaking point.

Christine savored those last few moments and locked them away in her heart with her deepest, most sacred memories. She was sure she had never heard a more beautiful sound than Erik's broken cry as he found unprecedented joy inside of her, and her voice rose with his as she shattered right behind him, tumbling into oblivion.

A deep serenity enveloped the two breathless lovers as they simply lay entwined in each other's arms. Erik made no move to roll away, and she was grateful; she wanted to fall asleep with his warm, comforting weight atop her and the steady thump of his heart against her own.

Several moments of peaceful silence stretched between them as Christine stroked Erik's hair, lost in memory. His breathing had grown shallow and even; she presumed him to be asleep, and was startled when his lips brushed her skin lightly.

"It occurred to me just now," he whispered, "That I never told you that I love you, too."

Christine fell asleep smiling for the first time in years.

**A/N: -collapses, exhausted- It's 9:04 my time… Sunday night… I did it! Whew. I was up until one last night because I love you guys so damned much and I took my promise to you seriously. Unfortunately a lot of you live on the east coast, so it's technically four minutes into Monday. Sorry, folks! I tried really hard… and four cups of strong coffee later, this is the product.**

**So what did you think? Like I said, this is my first time with rated M fluffiness. Feedback is ALWAYS treasured, but even more so in this chapter because it's out of my "comfort zone" if you know what I mean.**

**And now, I think I'm going to sleep… a lot… **


	28. Slaughter

**A/N: Eeek, this update took forever! I'm so sorry. I've been sick, school has been hell, and I'm trying to finish up all of my college aps by Thanksgiving. –headdesk- Anyways, hopefully this chapter will be worth the wait… it's quite the plot twist. ;)**

He refused to look at her for the rest of the afternoon, while she tried her best to pretend not to notice. The more time passed, the more she began to realize how ludicrous her idea had been— but there was no taking it back now. A few times during that first bleak stretch she considered simply telling him the truth, but quickly lost her nerve upon looking at him. He was so devastatingly handsome, despite his sickly pallor and distant eyes. It was unbelievable, but he had bought into her improvisational story— what option did he have? Her emotions and conscience played an incessant game of tug-of-war; one moment she was downcast, her spirits dampened by guilt, and the next she had re-convinced herself that since he had no recollections of his former life whatsoever, she was doing him a favor by giving him something to believe in. By the time the church bell struck five she could no longer decide whether she was continuing this deceitful little game for Raoul's benefit or her own, or some blurred combination of the two.

"Are you 'ungry, m'lord?"

For the first time in hours, his ocean blue eyes snapped up to meet hers. "What did you call me?"

_Shit. _Emily's breath hitched painfully in her chest as her ears burned bright red. Thinking on her feet, she blurted out as casually as possible, "'My love'… why?"

Raoul studied her questioningly for a moment before murmuring a quiet "oh" and shifting his gaze back to the frayed hem of his blanket. Emily had to remind herself not to breathe a sigh of relief. The opposing voices in her head took no time at all to resume their bickering, one insisting that it had been the perfect opportunity to admit her lie, the other maintaining that she had done the right thing.

She wanted to scream. What had she been _thinking_? Less than a day into her fraudulent "marriage," and already she had turned into a madwoman. Fortunately, years as a prostitute had taught her to drown out her conscience, and eventually she succeeded in doing just that. After all, she had no choice in the matter, really; to let her conscience win out would mean losing her only chance at a normal life, with a husband who might actually learn to love her for her soul instead of her body. It could work… she could make it work. What Raoul didn't know couldn't hurt him, therefore she was doing no wrong— perhaps she was even protecting him. Either way, what was done was done, so with a resolute professionalism she silenced the nagging voice of reason in her head and began to chop carrots for her _husband's_ supper.

Absorbed in the meal's preparations, she didn't notice the clatter of the front door or the thump of heavy boots on the hardwood floor. Not until Charlie's cold, wet lips were on her neck did she recognize his presence. Yelping loudly, she whirled about to face him, her wide eyes darting frantically from his face to the couch and back again. Raoul had drifted off, thank God almighty, but he began to stir at her startled squawk. She acted impulsively, grabbing Charlie's wrist, yanking him unceremoniously down the hall and into the bedroom, and slamming the door firmly shut behind them.

Fortunately, Charlie didn't seem to find her behavior even the slightest bit odd. He sat on the edge of the bed and threw his head back, husky laughter booming from his large form. Emily clenched her fists until her nails dug into the flesh of her palms, praying with all her heart that Raoul had either fallen back asleep or mistaken the sound as coming from one of the neighbors.

"Don't look so flustered, Em!" Charlie hooted, gesturing for her to come over to him. "I love a woman who knows what she wants." He grinned, unbuttoning his trousers. "Especially if it sounds good to me too." His thunderous laughter shook the room once again as Emily backed into the wall behind her, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. "Well, get over here, yeh crazy bitch! Jesus Christ, Emily, I've told you I don't like that… oh, what's it called? Whatever those other chaps like… you know, when yeh fool around for awhile before actually—"

"Seduction," Emily supplied wearily, her voice uncharacteristically frightened. Never in her life had she wanted to sleep with a man less. It had seemed like a wonderful opportunity at the time she had accepted the job— a warm bed, food, drink and regular pay for an entire week? It was unheard of! She had considered herself the luckiest whore in Brighton for getting such a bargain, but at the moment she could not think of a single decision she regretted more than accepting it.

_Raoul, _she told herself repeatedly, _Think of Raoul. You have to do something quick… he can never find out about Charlie. It would be the end of your plan; that bastard would give it all away. You'll lose him forever. Think, Emily, think!_

"Yes, yes, that's it!" Charlie waved his hand dismissively. "Don't bother. I'm not paying you for that. You're the best fuck in England, Em, which makes _me_ the luckiest son of a bitch in the country. Let's not waste any more time, eh? I've only got you for three more days."

Emily was about to be sick. Her stomach churned, her throat burning with oncoming tears. Of course, she couldn't refuse him; he owned her body, the house she stood in, and the couch Raoul was sleeping on. She was trapped in this room by her own desperate lie… and for the umpteenth time that day she cursed herself for trying to make her wretched life into a fairy tale. Feeling quite sure that within a few moments she would retch all over Charlie and throw him into a rage, she moved silently to the bed and began to unlace her corset.

Trembling uncontrollably, she removed her outer petticoat and watched with a mounting anxiety as Charlie lay back on the bed expectantly. She swallowed hard and tried unsuccessfully to tame the wild butterflies in her stomach as she crawled onto the mattress and over to him…

Just as her lips brushed his reluctantly, the tea kettle let out a piercing whistle in the other room. Emily nearly jumped out of her skin, but recovered quickly and practically leaped over to the door.

Charlie propped himself up on his elbows and frowned at her retreating back. "Can't it wait?"

"I'll just be a minute!" she promised as she slipped out of the bedroom. As soon as the door had shut behind her she threw her head back and mouthed a silent "thank you" to the heavens. From the living room she heard the rustling of blankets and Raoul's sleep-thickened voice calling for her.

"Right 'ere, darling." She combed her fingers through her hair as she stepped around the corner and into his view. Raoul was sitting up and eyeing her suspiciously, and she tried to force a smile and calm her quaking limbs as she crossed to the stove and pulled the shrieking kettle from the flames. "Would you care for some tea?"

He shifted uncomfortably, shaking his head. "No, thank you." Emily could feel his gaze scorching her back while she poured herself a cup with a shaky hand. "Forgive me, but you seem rather… nervous." Her hand slipped, and she knocked the teacup over, spilling its contents all over the countertop.

"Shit!" Chancing a sideways glimpse at him, she spotted his skeptical expression and began to shake more violently. "I mean… I'm sorry… I really shouldn't speak like that… Jesus Christ, I'm so clumsy!" She slumped over, placing her elbows on the countertop and burying her head in her hands. An awkward silence ensued for a few endless moments before she made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a sob and straightened her posture. Her cutting board, carrots and knife had been completely drenched, and she sighed again as she dumped the ruined food into the garbage and began to mop up the counter and rinse the soiled dishes.

"Are you alright, Emily?" Raoul's voice was quiet and genuinely concerned as it broke the heavy silence. Nevertheless, it startled her, and she accidentally cut her fingertip with the sharp knife she was washing. Hissing through clenched teeth, she brought her finger to her mouth and sucked on it.

The demon was quick to flare to life within her, like a shark drawn to the taste of her own blood. Her eyes widened to the size of saucers as she pulled her finger away and stared at it, watching the ruby red bead swell and drip. Her demon whispered seductively to her as she watched the blood flow, suggesting a plan so malicious and unimaginable that it was oddly attractive. Half of her wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the idea, but her darker half was entirely serious and quickly overpowered the former. It was sinful; it was wrong. But it was absolutely perfect— the solution to every last one of her problems.

A strange calm enveloped her as she rinsed off the knife and tucked it securely into her corset. She had gone pale as the moon, though her heart beat like a caged hummingbird against her ribcage. Schooling her features into a casual expression, she turned to face Raoul.

"I'm fine," she lied unconvincingly. "A bit light'eaded. Per'aps I'm coming down with something." The ghost of a smile flitted across her lips as she strode across the room and bent to place a kiss on his forehead. "I think I'll go lay down for a little while. Go back to sleep, darling. I'll wake you when supper is ready."

Raoul caught her gaze and held it for a moment before he nodded and released her. "Very well. Have a good rest… darling." Her smile was genuine as she turned away from him and made her way back toward the bedroom. She drew strength from that single word, cherishing it with all her heart as she repeated it over and over in her mind. The hallway had never seemed quite so short to her before. In seconds she was at the closed door. Sucking in a deep breath, she closed her eyes for a fleeting moment.

She did not remember turning the doorknob. When she opened her eyes she was inside the room, staring at a naked Charlie.

"'Bout time!" he snapped.

Shutting down her mind came automatically. In seconds her skirts were in a pile at her feet. She stepped out of them, swaying her hips slightly as she strode over to Charlie's side of the bed. Her eyes were vacant and clouded as she straddled him, taking him deep inside of her. His moans and grunts of pleasure went unheard to her ears as she began to move with him. It was as if she was witnessing everything from behind a distorted glass wall, or deep underwater.

Charlie's eyes were screwed shut as she brought him closer to climax, his expression positively ridiculous. Had the circumstances been different, she would have laughed. Instead her face remained locked in a mask of nonchalance as her fingers slipped into the laces of her corset and drew out the knife.

It was so simple; one quick, clean cut and he ceased to writhe beneath her. Warm crimson blood spurted from the thick artery of his neck, coating her hands, face, and torso, the sheets, the knife… liters and liters of blood. Never before had she so clearly understood the phrase "blood bath." She stared down at the gushing gash across his throat for several minutes before heaving the contents of her stomach onto the bed beside his corpse. Adrenaline pounded through her veins— if she had been trembling before, now she was positively quaking.

It occurred to her after a few hazy moments that she was straddling a corpse. With a hoarse scream she scrambled off of the bed and to the far corner of the room, where she collapsed into a shuddering heap. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and arousal and blood, a sickening combination which made her vomit repeatedly until her stomach was empty and hot bile burned her throat.

One sticky red hand clutched the crucifix around her neck as she rocked back and forth, her raw voice rasping out a jumbled combination of traditional Catholic prayers, vehement curses, choked sobs, and desperate pleas for forgiveness, directed at no one and everyone. She did not regret taking the sick bastard's life; in fact, she hoped that even as she cowered here he was face-to-face with Satan himself. To be perfectly honest, she was concerned only for her own skin at the moment. An eternity in Hell was obviously not appealing to her, but neither was being caught by the local police and hanged from the twisted oak tree in the center of town square.

Emily did not know how long she huddled in that terrible room, sobbing until her tear ducts were dry. She passed in and out of consciousness for awhile, but eventually managed to pull herself together.

_They can only hang you if they know it was you who killed him. Calm down. Take deep breaths. _

She closed her eyes, soothing the flames of her soul with cold, calculating reason. Raoul's name pushed itself to the forefront of her mind, and she whispered it reverently before opening her eyes again. Considerably calmer, she slowly climbed to her feet, pressing one hand against the wall for balance. She didn't dare look over at the gory mess on the bed; she kept her eyes focused on the door and slowly made her way over to it. Everything was perfectly still beyond the thin slab of wood. Taking three deep breaths, she quietly pushed the door open and peered around the edge.

Raoul was still fast asleep on the couch, his head turned away from her. Smothering a sigh of relief, she tiptoed down the hall to the first door on the right, painfully aware of the creaks and moans of the hardwood beams beneath her feet. The bathroom door was thankfully open already, and with a final glance at Raoul she darted inside, closed the door and locked it. Her heart was still beating viciously beneath her stained palm, and her stomach was clenched into an angry knot. Trying to keep as tight a rein on her emotions as possible while her body spiraled out of control, she staggered over to the sink, clutching either side of the metal rim to keep herself upright. She lurched into dry heaves for a few minutes, and tried her best not to become frightened. When the spell died out she turned on the tap and quickly shoved her hands into the clear stream. The water at the bottom of the basin turned a diluted red, but gradually, as she wrung her hands raw, it began to fade back to its natural color.

It was like washing her sins away, she mused, taking comfort in the morbid analogy. When her hands were clean she splashed the cold water up and down her arms and chest, then dunked her entire head beneath the faucet. Rivulets of red dripped from her hair, and she scrubbed her scalp mercilessly until she couldn't tell whether the blood was Charlie's or her own. Whipping her sopped mane back over her shoulders, she quickly shed her remaining clothes and put them in the sink.

Soon she was spotless, not a single speck of red to be found on her slim, pale body. It was freezing in that little bathroom, but she didn't care; her mind was too occupied to take notice of something so petty as temperature.

If there was one thought that anchored her to sanity, it was that she had to take care of Raoul, or he would surely die. Charlie was out of the picture now, leaving the road clear for her to spend the rest of her life as Raoul's doting wife… but there would be consequences if she stayed in Brighton long enough for the investigators to start looking into the boisterous, well-known fisherman's mysterious absence. Her hands were clean, and she could easily dispose of the body… but too many fingers would point to her as the obvious murderess. She was a whore, and quite frankly the local government wouldn't give a squirt of piss to keep her from hanging. They had been trying to rid Brighton of "ungodly riffraff" such as her for decades.

She and Raoul needed to leave Brighton as soon as possible. In fact, it would be better to leave the country entirely.

Before he died, her father had told her that they had family in Moscow. Unfortunately, Emily didn't speak a single word of Russian.

The choice was obvious, really. The boat ride over to France was affordable— only a few nights at the bar would cover passage for her and Raoul— and her "husband" spoke fluent French. Granted, they would probably have to travel inland a bit, just to be safe. She had always wanted to visit Paris, and so many criminals-in-hiding were living there anyway that she wouldn't have to worry about being discovered.

It was settled, then. Tonight, after Raoul was fast asleep again, she would go out to the tavern. It was Tuesday… all of the regulars would be down at Tom's, drinking themselves half-blind. She would wait until they were likely to be good and drunk, because it would be far easier to talk them into paying a ridiculously high price. If she played her cards correctly, she could have enough money saved up to catch the first ship out to Perros-Guirrec on Saturday morning.

Her nerves were considerably soothed by this new plan. It was entirely plausible; she could do this. Breathing evenly, her pulse slowed to a steady throb, she slipped back into Charlie's bedroom, not even flinching when she caught sight of the gruesome corpse in her peripheral vision. She changed quickly into clean clothes and moved calmly back into the kitchen, picking up a clean knife and continuing to make supper as if she had never been interrupted.

**A/N: Dun dun dunnn! ****Emily and Raoul? In Paris? Oh nooo! **

**-cackles-**

**I love stirring up chaos right when everyone is all happy and peaceful. –drops bomb-**


	29. Perfect

**A/N: So do I have any fans of Fluffy!Erik around here? Because if I do, soak it up. He's finally happy! Savor it/tolerate it while it lasts. ;)**

Erik had everything he'd ever wanted, and absolutely no idea what to do with it. He had dedicated the past ten years of his life to winning Christine's love and devotion, and now that he finally had both, he could do nothing but stare at her. Spent was his raging passion and desire to know her flesh, leaving him, for the first time in his life, a complete human being. An angel was in his arms, sleeping peacefully with a tiny, sweet smile on her face. Unaccustomed to getting so much sleep in such a short period of time, he woke soon after she had drifted off, and had been unable to join her in slumber since. For hours he contented himself with simply watching her, while his mind buzzed with the unfathomable idea that she was finally his, once and for all.

Restlessness tore through him like a knife. She had given him the precious gift of her love, of _humanity_; now he wanted to do something for her, to give something back. Something rare and special… something Raoul could never have given her. But _what_?

Music was the first option that came to mind, and the first to be dismissed. There was no mystery there any more… Christine would suspect it. He so loathed being predictable. Of course, he could always have painted her a masterpiece, or perhaps carved her a stunning sculpture of marble. But what would be the subject of his art? It had always been Christine in the past, and he doubted she would be interested in receiving a mirrored image of herself. Besides, none of those options were opulent enough for his exquisite young lover. He grew more frustrated by the minute. By the time Christine's eyelashes fluttered and she shifted slightly beneath him, he had begun to mentally construct a mode of transportation to take them to the stars, so that she might be among heavenly splendor nearly great enough to rival her own.

"Erik?" Her voice was thick with sleep.

He bowed his head to kiss her reverently, whispering over her mouth, "Tell me, _mon ange_, if you could have anything in the world, what would it be? Name it, and I swear it will be yours."

She sighed softly and pulled him close, curling her body instinctively into his warmth. "Another blanket would be nice," she murmured.

Alternately frustrated by the simplicity of her response and grateful for something to do, he leapt out of bed and practically sprinted across the house to the study, where a thick, homespun Russian blanket was draped over the edge of an armchair. It occurred to him as he hurried back to Christine's bed that he was still entirely naked, but this time he had no fear of being discovered. Despite the chill, it was actually quite refreshing to move about without the cumbersome restraint of clothing. He made a mental note to recommend it to Christine, and slipped back through the curtain with a devilish grin.

His face fell only slightly when he found her asleep again. Good-naturedly, he sighed and tucked the blanket around her ivory shoulders. Placing one last kiss on her temple, he left her in peace.

Although pacing alleviated a bit of his restless energy, it did nothing to help procure an answer as to what gift he could possibly bestow upon Christine. Each suggestion that dared to surface in his mind was quickly torn to shreds until his muse seemed to simply give up hope. Nothing was good enough for her. Every jewel in the shah's palace combined could not rival the splendor of the gem that slept in the next room. She had the body and voice of a goddess, and the immaculate, pure soul of a child. What gift, what sacrifice could a mere mortal offer an angel, who held the world's beauty in her fingertips?

It hit him suddenly, as if he had run into a glass-plate wall without having recognized its existence. Erik stopped dead in his tracks, the wheels in his head spinning almost visibly. Each of the pieces clicked together like a puzzle, and he followed them mentally and grinned.

_Perfect._

His eyes darted to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. It was just past 4:45 in the morning. If he started preparing now, they would make it. They had precisely two and a half hours.

After a moment's pause Erik realized that it would probably be wise to put some sort of clothing on; if he caught pneumonia down here, it would ruin everything. Slipping from one room to another like a shadow, he emerged from his bedroom minutes later, fully clad in black evening attire, a full-length cape, a porcelain mask, smooth black wig, and a cream-colored cravat. He felt so much more regal this way, so much more composed. His thoughts were crisper, his stride a bit more confident. This had been his Angel of Music garb. A bit of the musty, earthy smell of the chapel still clung to the fabric, and with it countless memories of late-night music lessons with his dazzling young protégé. Erik had to rip himself from them, giving himself a mental shake. Time was of the essence; there was too much to be done to waste time reminiscing.

In twenty minutes flat he had filled the tub with steaming, warm water. As his signature flourish, he peppered the surface with dried rose petals, watching them dance through the steam for a few seconds before whisking off to Christine's room with a habitual swish of his cloak.

He nearly sprang into the bedroom, so high was he on adrenaline. Grinning, he knelt down on the mattress beside Christine and shook her gently, like an impatient child waking his mother on Christmas morning. She woke with a moan, begged him for just a few more minutes, and promptly slammed the velvet pillow over her head.

"We don't have any time to spare, my love," he insisted, prying the pillow from her hands and lifting her into his arms as easily as if she were a limp rag doll. Christine groaned again, but snuggled comfortably into the luxurious fabric of his suit without further complaint. Her head bobbed with the weight of sleep, and she gasped loudly when moments later she was submerged in warm water, shocking her from her half-conscious state. She frowned up at Erik, but the expression quickly dissolved into pleasure as she settled back into the tub, sighing contentedly as she inhaled the delicious scent of soap and steam and roses. Erik watched her, tingling with fresh desire. Half of him wanted to strip of his own clothes and join her in the tub, but the ticking clock in his head reminded him that there was no time for that kind of recreation, for he knew that if he allowed himself that one indulgence, it would lead to another, and another… and he and Christine would wind up spending the entire day in bed. Not that he was entirely opposed to the idea… but there would be other times. Today was going to be special— today he would give her a gift she would never forget.

Silently he moved to the back of the tub and gently grasped her skull between his fingertips, guiding it to rest on the porcelain rim. Moving his hands with the slow dexterity of a weaver, he cupped the warm water and brought it to her head, allowing it to trickle through his fingers and down her hair in crystal rivulets. Christine sighed in pleasure as he began to lather her curls with scented soaps and oils, massaging her head with the pads of his fingertips and gradually working through every last knot and tangle. Finally he prodded her shoulders gently in a gesture to lie down in the water and rinse her hair. She seemed only too happy to oblige. When she sat up again her hair was shiny, slick, and soft, the color of melted chocolate. Erik stood suddenly and motioned for her to follow suit. She gave him an adorable pout and lay back in the water.

"It's so warm… can't I have just a few minutes more?"

Erik tried to avoid those perfectly disarming eyes and keep a straight face as he shook his head. He felt a deep appreciation for Gustave Daaé in that moment, knowing that if Christine had been his child instead of his lover, he would never have been able to refuse her every petty whim. Only the thought of her eyes, alight with joy at the sight of her surprise, pushed him to deny her this time. Fortunately she did not persist, but jutted her lower lip out a bit further and grabbed the edge of the rim, hoisting herself up. Erik tried not to stare at her perfect, naked form as she dripped water all over his bathroom floor, but the task proved impossible. An amused smile spread across her face as his eyes soaked her in hungrily, and it was she who finally snapped him from his trance.

"Well we can't be in _that_ much of a hurry if you can manage to spend three minutes gaping like a codfish. Perhaps I should just get back in the tub and…"

He cut her off with his lips, claiming her mouth almost violently. By the time their impassioned kiss had finished, they both lay in a soggy tangle on the bathroom floor, gasping for breath. It was Erik who pulled away, finally managing to remember that time was slipping through his fingers like sand. Christine inclined toward him unwittingly as he stood, her eyes wide and wounded until he unfurled his hand to help her up. Sighing and smiling, she accepted it and stood.

"I think I'm beginning to understand," she said. Erik raised an eyebrow in silent question as he lifted her into his arms and carried her back to the bedroom, more out of habit than the fact that she could not walk on her own. "Have you noticed, my dear Monsieur le Fantôme, that it is always you who breaks the kiss?"

"And have _you_ noticed, Madame la Vicomtess, I _initiated_ it this time?"

She nodded. "Precisely! I've finally put my finger on it. You, my beloved, have the impulsive urge to be in control at all times. Is that why you always pull away right when you have me seduced? To assure me that you are in control?"

Erik actually laughed. Brushing through the curtain, he set her down and swept over to the armoire, where he began to finger through her extensive wardrobe. "An interesting theory, my love." He finally pulled out an accommodating riding dress, complete with a matching bonnet and parasol, and handed them to her.

"You see?" Her eyes sparkled in amusement as she took the garments. "Just now! You decided what I would wear without even asking me."

He tilted his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. "I did not decide anything. I merely handed you an outfit, and from the gesture you inferred that I wanted you to wear it. Did I say anything of the sort?"

"Impossible man," she snorted in mock irritation, though the corner of her lip was turned up in an insuppressible smile. Nevertheless she began to dress, pulling the chemise over her head, followed by the starched whalebone corset. "Absolutely impossible."

Grinning, Erik moved over to her and began to tighten the laces as gently as possible. "Careful, darling. You're starting to sound like that petulant Daroga." There was a fondness to his tone despite the accusation, and his voice dropped to little more than a musical whisper as he leaned forward to kiss her neck. "Besides, if it were up to me you would not be wearing anything at all. You are far more beautiful without clothes, in my humble opinion."

Christine giggled, her cheeks turning pink. "Erik, I am quite sure you've never been humble a day in your life."

Helping her into the first layer of the dress, his smile broadened. "Ah, and you call the flaw in my own façade. Very good, my dear, very good. You might have been a poker player in another life."

She raised an eyebrow as he began to button up the back of her cornflower blue dress. "I'm not sure whether to be flattered or offended by that statement."

"Flattered. Some of the smartest, wittiest, and sharpest men I've known have been gamblers."

Christine considered that comment for a moment, her head tilted slightly to one side. "You have known some very colorful people, haven't you?" She did not need an answer; it was not a question. "It must have been wonderful, traveling to all those countries." Erik winced slightly, but his fingers did not falter in their ascent up her back as he continued to fasten the countless hooks and buttons. She was so painfully naïve at times. He had traveled the globe in a coffin, surrounded by metal bars and a pervert who wanted to rape him. Nevertheless, her sweet, innocent voice was a balm to those excruciating memories, and he tried to wipe them from his mind by listening to her childish prattle. "Papa and I used to travel, when I was very little. I don't remember much, though… of the countries, I mean. I was too small to see out the carriage window. The houses were beautiful, though, I remember that much."

His senses perked to attention, and he nearly ripped one of the buttons from the back of her dress. "Tell me about them. What was your favorite?"

Christine's eyes sparkled with the fond memory as she began to recall as much detail as possible, oblivious to Erik's studious fascination. "It was somewhere in Hungary, I believe. A very wealthy widow lived there with her two daughters. She was hosting a ball… she might have been royalty, but I can't remember. Anyway, she had heard of Papa through a friend, and paid him to play at the party. Oh, Erik, I wish you could have seen the house! It was so beautiful. The grand stairway looked just like the one in the foyer upstairs, and there were fountains everywhere! It looked like a palace. And I got to see the youngest girl's room… oh, what was her name? … I can't remember. But oh! She certainly lived like a princess. Her room was sparkling white and clean, with this enormous canopy bed with pink and purple scarves hanging from the ceiling. There was a balcony overlooking the garden, and vases of pink flowers all over her room. And her dolls! _Mon Dieu_, I had never seen so many baby dolls in my life. She wouldn't let me touch them, because my hands were dirty, and I think I cried. Oh, but it was so beautiful…"

At last she seemed to realize that Erik had stopped buttoning, and was simply staring at her, transfixed. Her cheeks colored, and she lowered her eyes sheepishly. "I apologize. You must tell me when I begin to babble like that. It's really very unladylike. Raoul would have…" She caught herself too late, and looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes.

Erik's chest tightened at the forbidden name, but he made no outward sign of his discomfort. He forced a noble smile and shook his head, kissing her forehead. "I am not Raoul." He managed not to say "_Thank God_," though he was thinking it forcefully. Instead he continued sincerely, "Your voice brings me joy, Christine; it always has." A quick glance at the clock, however, caused his expression to sober. "But I'm afraid we are running short on time." He rose swiftly, offering his arm. Christine paused only to fasten the bonnet to her head before taking it.

They wound through the dark labyrinth, led only by Erik's keen eyesight and memory. At last they reached the Rue Scribe entrance, and Erik paused to toss a few flakes of hay to César and give him a sound pat before taking Christine's hand again. He led her out into the chill, gray morning air, wrapping one arm protectively around her waist when she gave an involuntary shudder. The sun had just begun its ascent, and a thin canopy of wispy fog clung to the Parisian streets. Erik ducked into his cowl as he steered Christine toward le Boulevard Haussmann, where it would be much easier to hail a hansom. He tried not to allow his expression to become too fiercely proud as several young men passed them on the busy streets, eyeing him jealously as his stunning young lover huddled against his form. Yes, let the whole world see that he, a pitiful monster, had won the heart of the most talented, beautiful, compassionate woman in all of France— in all of the world!

Erik hailed a carriage at last, and directed the driver to Montparnasse before helping Christine inside and climbing in after her. She eyed him curiously upon hearing their destination, and his only response was a mysterious smile and a kiss.

"Trust me, my love. Just trust me."

"I do," she murmured, her teeth chattering. "I'm just trying to figure out what you're up to."

"You'll see," he promised, and held her close against him to keep her warm. After a few minutes the gentle rocking of the carriage, the rhythmic clopping of the horse's hooves on the cobblestones, and the rise and fall of Erik's warm chest lulled her to sleep. He watched over her lovingly, stroking her silken hair long after she lost the ability to recognize the motion. So comfortable and at peace was he during that hour-long trip, he nearly fell asleep himself. Just as his eyelids began to droop, the carriage pulled to a halt, waking Christine from her nap with a sharp intake of breath. Erik was immediately wide awake again, and climbed out of the carriage to help her down. He highly overpaid the ecstatic driver, and strode as quickly as Christine's sleepy limbs would allow up to the ticket counter.

"Two round-trip tickets to Perros-Guirec," he said just loudly enough for Christine to hear. "First class, if you please." He was a perfect gentleman as the cashier named the ridiculously high price, stifling the automatic urge to haggle the price down. _Too many years in Persia_, he decided. Unlike the poor peasants who sold their goods there, this man was very pasty, very fat, and very well dressed. He took the tickets with a curt nod and turned slowly to face Christine.

The look on her face branded itself on his heart for the rest of his life.

She was not crying, but tears sparkled in her beautiful brown eyes. Her smooth porcelain face was flushed from the cold and her emotion, and she grinned with all of her pearly white teeth showing.

"Home," she breathed, her eyes taking on a warm fire that made Erik's heart glow. "Oh, Erik." She threw herself into his arms suddenly like a small child, burying her face in his chest. "Thank you… thank you so much."

Erik beamed, cradling her head and kissing it repeatedly. As he walked with her over to the navy blue car, he worked his plan over and over in his head until he had every last detail figured out. Things were going very smoothly indeed. Christine was ecstatic, and she didn't know the half of it!

_Oh my love, if only you knew!_

**A/N: So does anyone else see the pieces coming together? –GASP- It must be FATE!**

**-laughs at those of you who think they know exactly where this is going- Okay, you're good, but not THAT good! This authoress has a few tricks up her sleeve yet! Consider this chapter the calm before the storm. **


	30. Haunted

**A/N: Welcome, oh beloved readers, to the STORM! MWAHAHAHAHAHA! –devil horns-**

**Just to clear this up for those of you who didn't get it: Christine and her father used to live in Perros-Guirec, a little coastal village on the northern shore of France (according to Leroux's novel). Erik just bought train tickets, and he and Christine are now on their way to her childhood hometown. **

At first, she was taken aback by the sudden change in Erik's demeanor. His willingness to be close to her, to touch her, was perhaps the most astonishing change of all. Not that she was entirely opposed to the idea— quite the contrary; she welcomed and cherished this new code of behavior. Ever since Raoul had died, she had been starving for some form of human contact, for any kind of intimacy. Once again she was the cowering little girl, alone in the cold cellar of the opera, begging for someone to watch over her and love her. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined that Raoul would be ripped from her so early in their relationship. She realized now the instinctual motive to return to Erik. He had always been her guardian and protector, and when the pillar of her strength suddenly disappeared, she had needed someone to support her. That someone was, unsurprisingly, the same man who had done just that for the past decade. For a few weeks, she had been terrified that by rejecting him she had severed their intimate tie for good, but thankfully, that hadn't been the case. She didn't know what would have happened had Erik refused to forgive her, to open himself to loving and trusting her as he once had.

These thoughts, and hundreds of others, chased themselves through Christine's head as she stared blankly out the window at the rolling green pastureland. Her cheek rested comfortably in the curve of Erik's shoulder, and he, too, seemed to be lost in his private thoughts. Absently she traced the lines of his palm, happy to be so close to him without the barriers of their painful past separating them. It was all behind them now, the doors of their future spread wide open. She was both thrilled and anxious about the road ahead; it was a shadowed path, filled with countless bends and forks. She didn't know how to feel about the fact that nothing would be predictable anymore. Her new lifestyle was polar-opposite to the one she'd shared with Raoul, as was her…

Christine jerked out of her reverie with a hard blink. She had almost wanted to call Erik her "husband," and it occurred to her suddenly that perhaps they would never be married. As a Catholic, her heart wrenched at this idea, but what frightened her most was that she wasn't deeply upset about it. There was absolutely nothing traditional about their current relationship. There never had been, and she would have been a fool to ask for or expect it. Unsettling as the thought might have been three months ago, she accepted the circumstances now with an air of cool indifference (inherited from the man next to her, no doubt). She had Erik's heart, mind, body, and soul, and he, hers. Somehow the formalities seemed trivial to her now, and for the life of her she couldn't imagine why it had ever been so important.

She shifted her gaze to his face, the masked side of which was facing her. A sudden, irrational anger welled within her that he should feel the need to hide beneath that godforsaken piece of porcelain. His imperfections made him even more beautiful in her eyes. Why was the rest of the world so blind that they could not see the pearl clamped within the clam's ugly shell? She had made that mistake once, and more than anything she wished she could take it back.

_Damn you! Curse you…_

Her expression softened even further at the memory. At the time she had thought him a monster, but now she believed she understood. His face had been his deepest, darkest secret, the one thing he had hoped she would never discover. Yes… Christine understood this very well. The accidental loss of her baby ("_murder_," her conscience still whispered harshly) had been the darkest stain on her soul, a blemish she had prayed Erik would never discover. It seemed Fate had been working against her, though she had to confess now that admitting to the miscarriage aloud had alleviated a bit of the constant pressure in her gut. Erik had reacted not with the characteristic flare of temper she had been expecting, but with a surprising tenderness and remorse. The sting on her heart of losing a child would never fully heal, but sharing her pain—her darkest secret— with another had lifted an invisible burden from her shoulders. They were even now; she and Erik knew one another inside and out, good and bad. Granted, he would always be somewhat of a mystery to her. It was this unpredictability which had excited and attracted her to him in the first place, and if she spent the rest of her days with him, day and night, she doubted she would ever come to understand him entirely. But somehow she didn't mind— it was a part of who Erik was, and she loved him for it.

The landscape outside their window was unfamiliar to her; Christine had been only a small child the last time she had taken the train from Perros-Guirec to Paris or vice-versa. Rolling plains turned into deep woods, then opened up in a long, wide clearing along the coast. She watched the ocean, fascinated by the white spray as the foaming waves crashed on the rocky shore. It had been far too long since she had seen the churning gray waters of the Atlantic. Closing her eyes to the scenery, she inhaled a deep breath of the tangy air. The smell of salt and seaweed brought back countless cheerful memories of days spent on her father's shoulders, playing in the sand and surf. Her closed eyes misted as she pictured Gustave Daaé's laughing face, but the tears never left her eyelashes. Absently she snuggled a bit deeper into Erik's shoulder, and with a nostalgic sigh drifted off to sleep.

Hours later, or so she presumed by the considerable darkening of the sky, the hair-raising screech of metal against metal roused her from a peaceful slumber. Erik, too, drew in a deep, sharp intake of breath, as if startled from sleep. She found his gaze sleepily and smiled, pressing a tender kiss to his unmasked cheek.

"I think we're home," she whispered, ignorant of the fact that Erik had never been to the small coastal town, so the title certainly didn't apply to him. Although she had spent the majority of her life in Paris, she felt as if a large piece of her heart was anchored here, and therefore this place was as much home to her beloved as to her. Her smile broadened as she took Erik's hand and gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze before jumping to her feet and pulling him toward the door like an anxious child. Although his expression remained neutral, his eyes smiled adoringly at her as she led him across the platform and into the small village. It was nearing dusk, and the sinking sun cast a rosy haze over the quaint little brick shops and houses that lined the main boulevard.

Though she had not stepped foot in Perros in ten years, Christine felt as if she could walk the streets blindfolded. She gasped and babbled incessantly as she walked hand-in-hand with Erik through town, pointing out the bakery where her papa used to buy bread and pastries on Sunday morning before Mass, the blacksmith where they used to have their horse shod, the fishing headquarters, where one of the sailor's sons had once chased her up and down the dock while their fathers talked, the church where she had been baptized, and finally the little white house at number 6 _Boulevard de la Mer_. Her eyes grew soft and nostalgic as she looked up at the ivy-coated house with a tiny rose garden, French doors, a little black balustrade, and navy shutters. Slowly she stepped forward, resting her fingertips on the short stone fence surrounding the yard. Erik stood behind her; just far enough that they didn't touch, but close enough that she could feel his body heat warming her back.

"This was your home?" he asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

Christine's eyes brushed over the white cottage slowly, and settled on the little window on the second story, furthest to the left.

"That was my bedroom," she said, pointing to it. Her finger curled slightly, and she dropped her hand at her side. A deep, resonating pain glazed her eyes as they shifted to the next window over. She pursed her lips against a sob, but could not seem to tear her eyes from it.

Erik's arms were around her waist, she noticed after a moment. She wasn't quite sure when he had moved in to embrace her, but with the recognition she sighed shakily and finally lowered her eyes. A dribble of tears fell from her lashes, and she brushed it away before giving Erik's arms a gentle squeeze and turning her back on her childhood home. She opened her mouth to tell him something, but the words died on her lips at the look on his face.

There was fear in his eyes, as old and familiar as the ocean behind him. He looked down at her as if she would lash out and strike him at any moment, and she frowned bemusedly. Had she said something wrong? She replayed the meager exchange of words between them over the past hour or so, and grew more frantic as she could not pinpoint a single thing which might have upset him. His hands trembled on her waist, but his lips were twisted up in a pained smile, like a man on his way to the gallows, trying to put on a brave face for his wife and children.

"What's wrong?" she choked, her voice mirroring his terror. The sun was setting over the water, casting Erik's face in a dark shadow, a silhouette burned into her memory for the rest of her days. Only the orange glare from the windows of the house reflected in his glassy eyes.

Erik's fingers tightened almost painfully on her waist as he swallowed and opened his mouth, his eyes never leaving hers. His lips moved wordlessly as he attempted several times to start a sentence, only to succeed in releasing a soft exhale. Christine wanted to cry. What had she done that was so terrible that he was now struck speechless? She gripped his forearms, looking up at him desperately.

"If I did something wrong, please forgive me—"

At this, he seemed to temporarily find his voice. "No!" he insisted sharply, shaking his head. "No, it's nothing like that…"

Relief flooded her, and her muscles went limp. Only the troubled look in his eyes kept her from sighing. She reached up a hand to stroke his cheek, her frown deepening.

"Then what is it?"

He pressed his lips into a thin white line, staring into her eyes. After a moment he drew in a deep breath, and whispered almost inaudibly, "Christine… would you…?" He faltered and let out an exasperated breath, his gaze darting away from hers.

"Would I…?" she prompted, her heart twisted painfully with anticipation. She told herself repeatedly not to get her hopes up, not to get ahead of herself, but it was so difficult!

To her irritation, he removed his hands from her waist and brushed past her, gripping the stone wall for support. Hunched over, his back turned to her, she could just barely make out the words that fled his mouth in a rush.

"If someone… offered this house to you, fully restored, would you… would you want to live here?"

Christine could not believe her ears. Her expression became incredulous and perplexed. Why, at a time like this, was he asking such a ridiculous hypothetical question? He might as well have asked if she would like to fly, supposing someone gave her the wings to do so.

_Humor him, _her conscience insisted.

"Why… yes, of course I would," she answered slowly, as if speaking to a retarded child. "But it's impossible, Erik." She gestured to the main window, through which she could see several pieces of plush, antique furniture lacking any sort of dust cover. "Look, someone's living here…"

He turned to look at her then, his eyes blazing with some unnamed emotion. "Nothing is impossible, Christine," he said, every word weighted with meaning. Stepping forward slowly, he took her hands in his, brushing his thumbs over her knuckles. His lips were close to hers now; she could feel his warm breath on her mouth, though her eyes were trained on his. The fear had nearly dissolved from his expression, replaced with a reverence and love so deep she felt her heart break. And she believed him. If Erik said anything was possible, then by God, he could make it so.

"What if I told you," he breathed, "that this house was yours?"

A shuddering breath escaped her lips. Suddenly she understood; these were not hypothetical questions. Overwhelming joy crashed down on her like waves on the shore behind them, and she collapsed into his arms with a scream of delight. Erik gathered her in his arms and held her tightly to his chest, smiling onto the top of her head.

"You are pleased, then?" he asked softly, an undertone of disbelief still tinting his voice.

"_Mon Dieu_, Erik!" Christine half-sobbed, half-laughed. "I never… _mon Dieu_…" She rubbed her face against his chest and then pulled away, grinning up at him through her tears. Her fingers found the back of his neck and bent his face down to meet her lips. They kissed for hours, it seemed, bathed in the glittering, golden light of dusk. By the time she broke away from his lips, breathless, the first pale stars shone in the darkening sky. The air had a bitter nip to it now that the sun no longer warmed the little French village, and she stayed huddled in the crook of Erik's arm as he began to lead her back toward the main street.

"We cannot stay here tonight?" she asked sadly, throwing a backward glance at the house. Erik kissed her temple and gave an equally remorseful shake of his head.

"I apologize, my dear. Monsieur O'Reilly seems to be taking his precious time with the repairs to the roof. Unfortunately, it's far too cold to sleep there tonight."

Christine wanted to retort that it was just as cold in the lair, but she had managed just fine with him snuggled up beside her. Somehow she refrained, too overcome with joy was she that the house was actually hers. Reminding herself that she had the rest of her life to sleep in her beloved cottage, she followed Erik cheerfully back into town and waited patiently as he reserved a room at the Setting Sun Inn. **((A/N: No pun intended! It's the name of the hotel in Leroux's novel.))**

Once she had unpacked her belongings and changed into her nightshift, she wasted very little time in assuring Erik just how appreciative she was of his gift. As it turned out, the cold was not a problem that evening.

Hours after Erik had fallen asleep, she lay awake, not nearly as exhausted as she should have been. The sheets were still damp with sweat, and she desperately wanted a bath, but feared waking Erik if she were bustling about, heating water. He didn't sleep enough as it was, and she was hardly about to disturb him in one of the rare occurrences when he did. Insomnia refused to lessen its grip on her body, however, so she slipped quietly from beneath his limp arm and dressed. A bit of cool night air might do her good, and the night sky away from the garish lights of Paris was positively stunning. Grabbing a wool shawl, she threw one last glance at Erik's sleeping form and crept out of the room.

The night air was a bit more than _cool_, as it were. Her breath was a thick white cloud in the blue moonlight as she made her way down to the beach. The little shops and houses that lined the packed-dirt boulevards were dark, save for the occasional candle that glowed steadily in an upper window. She smiled as she walked, remembering. There was the oak tree she had fallen from and scraped her knee… and there, the house of a childhood playmate… and there, the street she and Raoul used to plague, begging the elderly men and women for a story to feed their already-wild imaginations.

_Raoul… _He was everywhere in this village. The rustling leaves and crashing waves seemed to whisper his name. Strangely, she felt an odd sort of peace settle over her, whereas his name usually conjured regret and shame in her broken heart. It was as if his spirit resided here, safely locked away in her memory, and he… understood? Forgave her? She listened harder, but heard only leaves and waves.

The sandy strip of land on the eastern border of Perros beckoned to her, and she went without question. The sand was cool and inviting, and she removed her shoes as she stepped off of the beaten path and onto the beach. She didn't know precisely where she was walking… her feet were leading her. Vaguely she wondered if she might be sleepwalking, but her senses were alert; she felt the cold grains of sand give way beneath her feet, smelled the pungent scent of algae and fish, heard the rumble of the ocean's swell. No, she was very much awake… but guided by an indistinct, nameless sense, telling her to keep walking…

It was a familiar sensation, she mused. Sometime in her life, she remembered being under a spell somewhat like this, though the words had been clearer to her then.

_I am your Angel of Music  
Come to me, Angel of Music…_

She had followed blindly, as she did now. But this time, it was not Erik guiding her; he was back in the hotel, asleep. No… this time, it was…

Christine stopped in her tracks, her eyes widening. Her mouth fell open, sucking in an involuntary gasp.

_No… it's impossible!_

Around a large, rocky bend stood a slim man with shoulder-length hair the color of the sand beneath his feet. He was turned toward the sea, watching the waves as if they would speak to him the secrets of the universe. Moonlight lit up the side of his face closest to Christine.

She would have recognized that profile anywhere. How many times had she looked over to the opposite side of the bed to see that exact face bathed in the moonlight filtering through the curtains? The strong nose and delicate brow, pointed chin and high cheekbones…

Erik's assurance from earlier in the day suddenly rang clearly in her head: _Nothing is impossible._

"Raoul?" she whispered hoarsely.

It was the last thing she remembered before losing consciousness.

**A/N: -does the "Carlotta's maid upon running out to tell the diva that Christine was a smash in 'Hannibal'" look-**

**I wub you?**

… **No? Okay then.**

**-runs away screaming-**


	31. Improvising

**A/N: LMAO! Whew, you guys are bloody hysterical. :D Don't pull the wounded deer look on me! You KNEW when I brought Raoul back into the story that eventually he and Christine would have to face one another again! **

**Fortunately, I'll spare you for a few more chapters, ok? We have some catching up to do with Emsiepoo and Raoulikums. There are some critical plot elements in this chapter, so read (specifically the last page) carefully. **

**Kudos, compliments, and thank you to my beta, Marianne Brandon, who wrote the original draft of this chapter months and months ago (this one was pre-written, hence the speedy update). Couldn't have done it without you! **

**PLEASE NOTE! We are jumping back in time from where the last chapter left off. What's that you say? A resolution to my naughty, EVIL EVIL EVIL cliffhanger? HA! Hahahaha! –devilish grin- Oh no, my sweets, you will have to wait a bit longer for that! This chapter takes place about a week before Erik and Christine leave for Perros-Guirec, and the mysterious Raoul beach appearance. Oh, the sweet scent of anticipation… **

"Well, well, well, would yeh look who's back, boys?" The bartender called as she stepped into the dimly lit pub. Emily raised an eyebrow and winked flirtatiously at the whoops and hollers that greeted her from the men sitting around the various tables. She wound her way to the bar, swaying her hips, and settled on one of the stools. "Welcome back, my sweet. What are you drinkin'?"

Before she could open her mouth to speak, a familiar voice rang out behind her. "Give her whatever she wants, Tom. It's on me."

She clenched her teeth and quietly ordered a pint of ale, unsurprised when two cold, clammy hands caressed her bare neck. "Open for business now that Charlie's week's up?"

Davis Hogan— fairly predictable. He hadn't asked for her in over a month, but that was to be expected; caring for a sickly, bedridden wife kept him busy, not to mention his job at the cannery. Knowing him, he was going crazy by now. He was probably eager enough to pay just about anything…

Just barely stifling a groan, Emily lifted the ale to her lips and gulped at it greedily. She would need its tranquilizing power to put a damper on her conscience. Even the mention of Charlie's name sent cold pinpricks through her heart. The incredulous look in his eyes as she slashed his throat would haunt her for the rest of her life.

She shook herself mentally. _Not now, Em. Not now. Just charge this bastard an arm and a leg so you and Raoul can leave this godforsaken city come Saturday. _

One of Davis's icy hands slid down her tightly corseted front to rest on her inner thigh, and this time she could not suppress a shudder. He chuckled, mistaking it for a sign of pleasure, and sidled closer to her. His breath reeked of whiskey, and Emily fought down an expression of disgust as he brought his mouth to her ear. "Tom's got an empty room upstairs. Whadd'ya say?" When she felt his hand glide up further still she frowned at him, pressing her knees together.

"Tha's got a price on it," she snapped testily before thinking better of her tone. Fortunately Davis thought she was just being playful, for he gave a mock growl and winked at her.

"Feisty tonight, are we?" He grinned, revealing the gap where his front teeth should have been. "Excellent."

"Hey, Emily!" shouted James Barclay from across the room. "Heard Charlie found a half-drowned Frenchman last week."

She winced, but no one noticed.

"Yeah," another, bewhiskered man said with a nod. "What ever happened to 'im?"

"She made 'im feel better, you can be sure of that!" yet another man added, elbowing his drinking companion and winking suggestively at Emily. A few loud cheers and crude jokes followed this remark, and several men raised their tankards. Bess, the only other female in the tavern and Emily's long-standing competition, frowned at her customer, who had his arm around her shoulder and yet was toasting Emily with the lot of them.

Emily began to feel sick, and Davis was relentless. With every pinch, every stolen, revolting caress, she was losing the chance to earn money. Reminding herself repeatedly of what was at stake, she turned back to Davis with a toss of her greasy hair, finally meeting his half-drunk, bloodshot gaze.

"'Ow much, then?" she asked.

He gave her another broad, toothless grin. "I knew you'd come around. Missed me, 'ave you?"

Emily bit back a nasty retort, remembering herself just in time. Instead she leaned forward with a seductive smile and whispered, so only he could hear, "You know you're my special one."

"Then I should get a special price, eh?"

She giggled coquettishly. "Davis, love, I 'ave to eat like anyone else in the world."

His smile broadened. "I s'pose." He jerked his head toward the stairs. "Shall we?" When she named her price, the care-lines in his forehead deepened in a scowl. "The Queen don't eat that much."

She shrugged one shoulder; she couldn't afford to back down. Feigning distraction, she looked away, sighing and lightly scratching her neck. "I can only imagine what some of these other lads would be willing to pay." She looked back at him with a charming pout. "And you being my favorite…"

He chuckled. "Oh, Emily, if it weren't for Joanna, I'd marry you so I could 'ave you all to myself."

She rolled her eyes behind his back as he took her hand and led her toward the staircase, his palm beginning to sweat excitedly against her own. Another round of cheers rose from the pub's patrons as they began their ascent to the second floor. She bit her lip, trying unsuccessfully to keep her thoughts from drifting back to Raoul. Hopefully he was asleep by now… curled up on the couch, warm and comfortable in front of a blazing fire. She longed to wrench her hand from Davis's grasp and run back to him, but memories of his violent cough propelled her up the last few stairs. He would die if she could not provide for him, and there was certainly nothing else for her to do in this town; everyone knew what she was— and that she was good at it.

"Shit, it's cold!" she cried as soon as they stepped inside the tiny, claustrophobic room. Every last inch of wall space was crammed with barrels of ale, a bed, chair, and washstand. She was thankful, though, for the dark atmosphere that kept her from seeing the thick layer of dust and grime that coated everything— even obscured the orange light that came through the small, broken window. Charlie's place was just as shabby, but at least it was reasonably clean.

"I'll warm you up soon enough," Davis said, unbuttoning his trousers.

"There a clock in 'ere?"

He frowned. "I 'ave a watch." He drew out a tarnished silver pocket watch and dangled it in front of her.

"Right, 'and it over," she said through chattering teeth.

"What for?"

"You're payin' me for 'alf an hour, sir, an' in this room, I ain't lettin' you 'ave one extra second. I'll be frozen solid by the time you're done!"

She hadn't cried on the job since her first night as a whore, but as she lay back on the bed and pulled up her skirts, her eyes misted with hot tears. How could she be doing this? She had almost convinced _herself _she was married, and now she felt like the unfaithful wife she was pretending to be.

Cringing and clenching her eyes shut, she tried to imagine Raoul in Davis's place as he settled between her legs and drove inside of her; she tried to picture Raoul's sweet, handsome face and lean body above her, but the task quickly proved impossible. Though she flushed at the thought, she imagined him to be a tender, gentle lover, whereas Davis grinded into her with hard, almost painful thrusts. There was no way she could conceal his face with the fantasy of a sickly man who waited for her inadequate nursing skills and nothing else. Still, she was so distracted she almost forgot to play her part.

"What's wrong, Em?" Davis asked huskily. Her eyes popped open, and she inhaled quickly. "You're not makin' this much fun."

"It's so cold in 'ere," she said.

His eyes narrowed in annoyance and he grabbed her thighs, pressing himself deeper within her. "I'm doin' my best."

_Oh, you don't give a shit about me, _she thought. After another minute, she remembered to reach up and grasp the iron bedstead, moaning in artificial ecstasy. She'd almost forgotten; Davis liked noise. Probably now more than ever, with a potential audience downstairs.

The thirty minutes dragged on as Davis continued to thrust into her tirelessly. Eventually she went completely numb, managing to yank her thoughts from Raoul and arch up beneath him, toss her head, moan and murmur and beg for more. She shut her mind off entirely, as she always did, falling back on ingrained habits to pull her through the bleak stretch. She had done this nearly every night for the past eight years— as always, instinct finally won over her aching conscience. Her eyes were glued to the pocket watch, and the moment the second hand ticked over the thirty-minute mark, she wrenched her mouth away from his.

"Sorry, love, but time's up," she said. Davis's only response was to dig in his pocket and toss a handful of coins on the floor before crushing his lips into hers again and delving deeper inside of her. She glanced longingly at the extra money and stifled a groan, steeling herself for another half-hour.

When it was over and Davis finally withdrew, she had to bite down on her tongue to stifle a sigh of relief. She thought she would surely die from the cold— she couldn't feel her ears, fingers, or the tip of her nose anymore. Her customer, however, seemed utterly satisfied; her performance was rewarded with another few coins. Tips were unusual, but then again, Davis had been desperate. Buttoning up his trousers, he gave her buttock a sharp pinch, nodded his approval, and strutted downstairs without another word.

Emily waited until he was well out of sight before sitting up slowly, straightening her skirts and fighting the urge to retch. Her teeth began to chatter again, her breath a cloud of white mist in the dim light. When she was fairly sure she could stand, she rose gingerly to her feet, running her numb fingers through her disheveled hair. She felt disgusting— more than anything, she wanted to run home to the warm fire and a mug of tea, a long bath, and Raoul.

She bent to scoop up the coins and tucked them securely in her bodice before wiping the cold sweat from her face and following Davis down the stairs. Trying to ignore the catcalls and cheers from the other customers, she kept her eyes lowered as she grabbed her cloak from the hanger near the door.

"Leavin' so soon, Em?" James Barclay called as she reached for the door handle. "Don' tell me you let 'im wear you out that quick! The rest of us still ain't got our fun…"

She sighed wearily, pulling her hood over her head. "Not tonight, boys. Bess'll 'ave to do for now." Fortunately her answer seemed to satisfy most of the men, for the crowd around the other prostitute swelled almost immediately as she stepped out into the biting cold.

The frosty wind whipped at her cloak as she ran through the streets, hoping and praying she wouldn't meet another insistent customer. She kept her head lowered until she reached Charlie's doorstep. Light poured out through the window, brightening her spirits slightly as she fumbled in her corset for the house key. Finally she found it and jammed it in the lock, but the door was frozen shut. Groaning, she kicked the door as hard as she could, and finally it gave, swinging open with a clatter.

She flinched as she stepped through and shut it quietly behind her. Raoul had woken at the noise with a sharp intake of breath, glancing over at her with bloodshot eyes.

"Sorry," she whispered, removing her cloak and boots. "I didn't mean to wake you."

He rubbed his hand over his eyes and shifted to a sitting position, coughing hard into his fist. Emily frowned in concern and strode over to him, pressing her palm to his forehead. He gasped and yanked away instinctively, launching into another coughing fit.

"_Mon Dieu_, your hands are like ice!" he managed finally, reaching up to grasp her fingers lightly in his own. She swallowed hard, unable to meet his gaze.

"It's cold outside," she said, stepping over to the fireplace and throwing another log on the smoldering pile.

"Where did you go?"

She closed her eyes briefly before turning to look at him. "The doctor's," she lied through her teeth. "But 'e was out tendin' a little boy with influenza." Wrapping her arms around herself, she perched on the edge of the couch. "I'll go back tomorrow an' see if 'e can come over."

Raoul stared deeply into her eyes for a moment before reaching a hand up to stroke her cheek. "_Merci_."

She closed her eyes at his gentle touch, her breathing growing shallow. Guilt coursed through her veins, and when she looked back down at him her eyes shone with pain. Raoul swallowed and brushed his thumb across her cheekbone, his features laden with remorse.

"I want to remember," he whispered, the guilt in his eyes mirroring her own. He stared at her for a moment before lying back on the couch, opening his arms to her. Tears sprung to Emily's eyes, unbidden, as she nestled into his chest, curling her knees against him. Raoul readjusted the blankets and wrapped his arms around her, resting his temple against her forehead. "Tell me about the day we met."

Taking refuge in the warmth of his embrace, it was easy to lose herself in her fantasy life. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pressed a kiss to his chest and began to weave a tale, feeling very much like she was telling a small child a bedtime story. "I was a maid in your grandmother's estate, God rest 'er. You came over for cakes and lemonade ev'ry Sunday after Mass. Oh, she was right pleased to see you… 'er face lit up like a candle ev'ry time she saw you comin' up the drive. I remember perfectly, she always used to say to me, she'd say, 'Emily, make sure to add an extra pinch of sugar to my grandson's glass. My Raoul 'as a sweet tooth, he does.'" She was vaguely aware of the tears streaming down her cheeks and onto his bare chest, but did not bother to wipe them away. By this point she wasn't even sure why she was crying, only that it seemed to ease some of the tension in her chest.

"I remember the first time I saw you like it was yesterday. I was comin' outta the kitchen holdin' a fresh pitcher o' lemonade, and…" She laughed softly. "Well, you know 'ow old ladies rant about their grandsons… I didn' actually expect you to be as handsome as she said."

"And?"

She grinned. "I… dropped the pitcher. Smashed into a thousan' pieces, it did. Ice and glass and lemonade all over. You were such a gentleman; you were tryin' not to laugh, but your grandmother was livid. Almost lost my job that day. Only because of you she kept me on."

Raoul chuckled softly, but his chest tightened beneath her head and soon he was doubled over coughing again. She propped herself up on her elbow until his coughs subsided, gently patting his back. Finally he lay back down with a sigh, pulling her head to rest on his chest again. She frowned, and he forced a smile. "I'm more comfortable with the extra weight. Please, go on."

Laying her head back on his chest, Emily complied. "Anyways, I kept an eye out for you after that. I think I was prob'ly more excited when Sunday came around than your grandmother was." She paused, swallowing hard. "You were there with 'er when she died… 'eld 'er 'and all night. She passed 'round four in the mornin'… and you started to cry. I couldn' stand it… I went over and took you in my arms like a babe. You waited 'til the priest came an' said you wanted to go for a walk. I went with you." She fell silent.

Raoul waited a moment before asking, "And then?"

A blush crept up her cheeks. "You started cryin' again when we were alone, and I…" She swallowed. "I… comforted you." She couldn't meet his eyes. The lies seemed to be weaving themselves now; it was as if she no longer controlled the words spilling from her mouth. "'Bout nine months later our daughter was born. We got married soon as I could stand again… you bein' a proper gentleman and all."

Raoul's breathing had grown labored. "Our daughter?"

She held her breath for a few seconds, very aware of the tension hanging in the air between them. Another lie waited on the tip of her tongue, ready to plunge forward, but she withheld it for a moment. It was terribly risky… the last thing she needed was to incite a reminiscence from his past, which could perhaps be the one puzzle piece that brought his whole memory back. However, she had heard him cry out a woman's name several times while he slept, and jealousy pierced her heart each time. An unmistakable love radiated from his voice every time he uttered it, but also a pain beyond measure. She wanted to silence it. If Raoul had truly forgotten everything, as he had said, it would be nothing more than a vaguely familiar name.

"Yes… 'er name was Christine," she said very slowly, a mixture of terror and hope etched into every line of her face.

Recognition sparked immediately in his ocean-blue eyes. "I… I remember that name. And a little girl… with brown hair and eyes… and a red scarf… on a beach." His face lit up excitedly. "Emily, I remember her!" He sat up, oblivious to her tears. "Where is she?"

_Stop! _Her conscience pleaded. _Don't do this. Don't break his heart over a child that doesn't even exist!_

She pointedly ignored it; she had come this far, and she wasn't about to give up. Her tears were real, her sorrow feigned, as she sobbed quietly, "She died, Raoul." His face slowly darkened, his eyes losing their sparkle. "The two of you went out for a walk along the docks. She thought she saw somethin' in the water, and leaned too far over the edge…" Her voice broke with sobs for the loss of her imaginary child. "She couldn't swim. She was a babe, Raoul… so small… that coat was too big on 'er. It dragged 'er below the surface and you dove in after 'er…" Her entire body shook, and Raoul, too, began to weep softly for the child he couldn't remember. "You spen' too long in tha' freezin' water, but you didn't care nothin' for yourself. You carried 'er straight to the doctor, and as soon as you were in tha' door you collapsed…" She paused momentarily for breath before continuing tremulously, "The fever took 'er in two days. I 'ardly 'ad time to mourn for her 'fore the doctor told me I might lose you too. 'E thought you'd caught your death in that water, but I prayed… God, I prayed with all my 'eart… and 'ere you are, my love." She sighed deeply, pressing her trembling lips to his.

_Filthy whore! _Her mind spat. _How dare you kiss him after lying to his face? You don't deserve him._

All thoughts were eventually drowned out as he held her close, his lips gliding gently over hers. The taste of his tears nearly overwhelmed her, but she finally pulled away, whimpering as she snuggled into the crook of his neck.

"Thank God Almighty," she whispered against his skin. "I don't know what I would 'ave done 'ad I lost you both."

A trembling, breathy sigh escaped Raoul's lips as he shook his head miserably. "But you have… I'm still lost, Emily. I'm still lost."

**A/N: And all the E/C phans breathe a sigh of relief, am I correct?**

"**AHA! He's forgotten Christine! Maybe when he sees her on the beach, he won't recognize her! He thinks Christine is his dead child!"**

**Maybe you're right… and then again, maybe not. Who knows? It will be a couple more chapters before we get to that point anyways. I'm backpedaling, can you tell? ;) Adds to the suspense of finding out what the heck is gonna happen with Raoul and Christine on the beach. Mwahaha! **


	32. Escape

**A/N: This one is short and simple, but it sets quite a bit up. Forgive all these fillers, guys… there's a point to them, believe it or not. I'm trying to punch them out ASAP and keep them short so we can get back to "the good stuff," but there's a lot that needs to happen and be explained before then, or you'll all be scratching your heads, going "Whaaa?" ;) **

Raoul drifted in and out of consciousness for the next few days, and he wasn't sure which state confused and frightened him more. Asleep, he faced the repeating nightmare of a sinking ship and the baby he couldn't save— Christine, a child he now recognized as his own. Time and again he woke up screaming her name, but it was only a small relief to know why. He had lost a child he couldn't even remember, though her name stirred an excruciating remorse in his heart. If he had doubted the accuracy of Emily's story before, now there was no doubt in his mind that she was telling the truth, for she could not possibly know about the child who haunted him in sleep. She was either a witch or his wife, and he was far more inclined to believe the latter. Everything she told him made perfect sense… he just wished he could remember more of it.

Emily went out to fetch the doctor every night after supper, but each time returned with a sullen, apologetic look. Influenza was spreading like wildfire among the school children, she told him; the doctor was out each time she went to his office. But finally, on Friday night, he woke to the familiar clatter of the front door, and this time an extra pair of heavy boots accompanied Emily's lighter footsteps.

Moments later, Doctor Lambert's translucent, calloused hand came to rest on Raoul's brow, waking him fully from sleep. He looked up at the doctor through glassy eyes, and tried to swallow the painful dryness in his mouth and throat to offer a proper salutation. The only sound that came from his cracked, parched lips was a hoarse rattle, followed by a long coughing fit.

"When did he first show signs of fever?" the doctor demanded of Emily as he pushed down the blankets covering Raoul's chest and began to probe the purplish-yellow bruises.

"This mornin'," she murmured, taking one of Raoul's hands, though her eyes were trained on the doctor. He had the strangest sensation that he was witnessing the scene from somewhere far away, looking down at his own ailing body. Mentally, he was fully conscious, though raging fever paralyzed his senses, rendering him incapable of participating in the events around him.

Lambert finished probing his chest, and dug in his leather briefcase for a stethoscope. Flinching at the shock of the cool metal circle against his chest, Raoul launched into another coughing session before collapsing back against the couch cushions, exhausted. The doctor listened intently for a few moments before shaking his head and slipping the medical instrument back into its case.

"I'm amazed you've kept him alive this long, Emily. Unfortunately, there's still nothing much I can do for him." With a shrug of his bony shoulders, he dug once more in his black leather bag and procured a syringe and two vials of clear liquid. "I'm going to let his fever run. His body is young and strong; with any luck, it just might heal itself. It's all up to him now. What I can do is give him a potent sedative to help him sleep. Right now, rest, fluids, and good prayer are the best medicines for him. There's really nothing more I can do."

He hardly felt the prick where the doctor injected the two vials of liquid into his arm. After a few moments he saw the ceiling spin, heard Emily murmur her thanks to the doctor, and remembered nothing more.

When next he woke, sunlight poured through the window, illuminating the shabby living area. The fire had died down to soot and embers, but Emily had tucked three extra blankets around his shoulders, and the sunshine warmed his face. Thank God, the fever seemed to have broken overnight, but he was left with a sharp, searing headache. No sooner had he sat up than he launched into another lengthy coughing spell. The noise seemed to alert Emily to his presence, for she appeared seemingly out of thin air the very second he made a peep. Falling to her knees beside him, she pressed one cool palm to his forehead. Her face split in a grin, and she sighed in relief.

"You seem so much better! 'Ow are you feelin'?"

He massaged his temples fruitlessly, offering a weak smile in return. "I've been better."

Emily pursed her lips. "I'd never've guessed it. You look good as new, m'love." She bent to peck him on the lips, and then stood up, wiping her hands on her dress. "Can I get you anythin'? Breakfast? Some tea, per'aps? You must be parched."

"Just a glass of water would be wonderful, thank you," he replied politely. She nodded, and turned sharply on her heel to rummage about the kitchen. Raoul watched her curiously, his eyes narrowed. There was an unmistakable air of apprehension which showed in every clipped movement of her body. Something was wrong— she was keeping something from him. He decided to keep his suspicions silent for a few minutes, and wait to see if perhaps she would give away the source of her anxiety without probing. Instincts from a forgotten past told him that women were sensitive creatures— easily offended, and quick to judge. Granted, he could not remember exactly how he had learned this lesson, but he knew to hold his tongue in a situation like this. At the moment, Emily was like a startled horse… he had only to wait patiently, and soon she would come back to him, seeking affection and sympathy for her scare. If he approached too hastily, though, he would only seek to startle her further, and drive her from his outstretched hand.

As it turned out, he didn't have to wait very long. Her eyes darted feverishly over to him every few moments, and eventually she cleared her throat, as if preparing to make an important announcement. When she turned back to face him, her lips were stretched in a taut smile, and she sighed calmly as she handed the glass of water to him.

"I received a letter this mornin'," she said in a forcibly light tone.

"Did you?" he replied, feigning nonchalance. Watching her over the rim of his glass, he saw her nod stiffly before turning back to the kitchen to prepare his breakfast.

"Yes." Here she hesitated dramatically, building up apprehension for the impending proclamation. He had to consciously restrain himself from leaning forward intently. "… When you first fell ill, after… after Christine…" She looked at him miserably, and he nodded his understanding. "… I wrote to your brother and sister-in-law, telling them what 'ad 'appened."

At this bit of news, Raoul could not help sitting perfectly upright; his feigned indifference had been completely drowned out by the unexpectedness of her announcement.

_My brother… I have a brother…_

He nodded absently, as if his head had a mind of its own. The statement seemed to ring true to the opaque, surreal sense which bound his blurred past and present. For a moment he glimpsed a fleeting memory of a sturdy boy with kind, deep-set blue eyes. A name stood on the edge of his tongue, but dissolved as quickly as it had come. He scrambled through the fog of his memory, trying desperately to reclaim it, but it was lost to him again as if it had never existed.

"My brother," he echoed aloud, more to himself than Emily. She nodded.

"'E's worried sick about you, an' rightly so." She picked up a dish and began to scrub it fervently with a damp rag. Another theatrical pause ensued before she continued, still in her falsely cheerful, almost sing-song tone, "Always 'as been a stubborn one. Didn't even _ask _if we wanted to come… 'e outright demanded it!"

"Come… where?" Raoul echoed dumbly.

"To 'is 'ouse, o' course. Insists that we'll starve or freeze to death if we stay 'ere, what with you bein' too sick to work." Rolling her eyes, she dug into her dress pocket and procured the said note, along with two blue, hole-punched cards. "Sent us these tickets to leave for France on the nex' tide, and reserved a car on the train from the dock all the way to Paris. I'll just have to return 'em to 'im, o' course, and tell 'im you're far too sick to even leave that couch, let alone…"

"To Paris," he repeated incredulously, like a well-trained parrot.

"I know!" Emily cried, throwing her soapy hands in the air. "Don' know wha' the 'ell 'e could 'ave been thinkin', what with you bein' in a condition like this…"

"May I see the letter?"

Shrugging, Emily wiped off her hands and handed him the small white envelope. There was a red wax seal on the back, engraved with an emblem he couldn't quite make out. With trembling hands, Raoul opened the envelope and carefully slipped one finger inside to pull out the fine white stationery.

_My dearest sister-in-law,_

_My deepest condolences and prayers go out to you in your time of sorrow. Christine was a dear, pretty little child, and I shall miss her terribly. I can only pray that my poor brother will heal from this terrible ailment quickly. Never mind what those pompous British doctors say; Frenchmen have long been the foremost nation in medical science. I must insist that you and Raoul come home at once. Our doctor is the best in all of Paris, and he will care for my dear brother and make him well again. You simply cannot stay in England; you will either freeze to death or starve, and I will have none of it when I have plenty of room, food, and (forgive me if I appear to be boasting) money to support you and still be quite comfortable. Enclosed are two tickets aboard the HMS Cadera, which departs on Saturday the twenty-eighth at approximately three in the afternoon. Just inland from the dock at Perros-Guirec, you will find a cozy inn called the Setting Sun. I have made reservations for the two of you to stay for one overnight, and in the morning you are to board the eight o'clock train to Paris. We will try to meet you at the station, but if my meeting with the Duke d'Auburgne runs late, please use the enclosed money to hire a hansom. I pray God keeps you in His graces. I shall see you Monday afternoon._

_Much love,_

The letter was signed in an intricate, illegible web of scribbles and flourishes. Raoul was too proud to ask his brother's name— it seemed too absolute. Trying very hard not to let his excitement surface, he tucked the letter reverently in its sleeve and handed it to Emily with a nod.

"Far be it for me to deny such clear, curt instructions," Raoul said with an unmistakable air of finality. "We will do what he says."

He did not miss the brief glint of satisfaction in Emily's eyes before she burst into an outraged rant. "Raoul, you're in no condition to make such a trip! I am perfectly capable of providing for the two of us; we 'ave no need to take charity from your—"

"I want to see my brother, Emily," he insisted calmly, coolly. "Perhaps a trip to my home country is precisely the jog my memory needs. I could not live knowing that I had passed up such an opportunity over a petty cough, and hurt my brother's feelings in the process. Now come." He pushed the multiple layers of blankets off of his chest and swung his legs over the side of the couch, swallowing repeatedly to fight back an onslaught of coughs. "Help me up."

**A/N: See? Told you it was short! **

**-tssk tssk- Sneaksy little Emily… what IS she up to? –strokes chin and smirks- **


	33. Desperation

**A/N: Now now, my dears, don't flip out... it's another Emily chapter, but I don't believe you'll be disappointed with this chapter. Read on and see for yourselves! -giggles devilishly-**

Emily was only too glad to leave that godforsaken house behind. In sleep she was haunted by bloody corpses, even after she disposed of Charlie's body, dumping it in the sea to be mistaken for another shipwreck victim. Hopefully by the time anyone discovered him, his features would be distorted and discolored to the point of being unrecognizable. Nevertheless, she wasn't prepared to take the risk of sticking around to find out.

Her plan had worked flawlessly; Raoul had taken her bait as eagerly as a puppy accepts a scrap of meat. She had known he would be incapable of resisting his "brother's" generous invitation. It had been years since she had put her calligraphy skills to use, but they came back the moment her pen touched the embossed parchment she had stolen from Doctor Lambert. Those seven years of finishing school had been useful for _something_. Her handwriting was as elegant as any belonging to a countess or duchess. It was easy enough to mimic a "brother's" loving tone when she thought of Raoul, and the letter came out even better than she had originally anticipated. In a matter of minutes, Raoul had been dead-set on leaving for his brother's house in Paris, despite his sickly condition.

There was only one minor hitch in her plan: as far as she knew, Raoul didn't _have_ a brother, and if he did, she had no idea where to find him. She had only the vaguest idea of how she would make her plan work, but the knowledge that she must. With 1,000 pounds stashed in her suitcase (the product of four consecutive nights spent _entertaining_ every last patron of Tom's pub) and the skills of a trained seductress, she hoped to sucker one French idiot into playing the role of Raoul's brother. How difficult could it be? From what she'd heard, every Parisian man loved a good whore, and a good whore she most certainly was.

The plan was sketchy, but it was the best she could come up with. Better to starve and freeze to death in Paris, she imagined, than to hang by the neck in the town square of Brighton.

One of Raoul's arms was draped over her shoulder, and he leaned a great deal of his weight against her as they made their way slowly down to the pier. Emily carried a large suitcase in the hand that wasn't supporting Raoul's waist, stuffed to the brim with her own meager belongings and an assortment of garments stolen from Charlie and her other clients. In her pockets were the boat and train tickets, the counterfeit letter, and about twenty pounds in cash. The ferry over to Perros would take just under a day; they would arrive at the port around dusk.

The health inspector poked and prodded them, checked their hair for lice, and took a good long look at Raoul's face, frowning slightly.

"'E got a fever, ma'am?"

"Just an 'ead cold," Emily assured him. Raoul nodded and stood up a bit straighter, his eyes watering from the effort of keeping his violent cough at bay. The inspector studied him for a few more seconds before shrugging and handing the tickets back to Emily.

Only when they were alone in the cabin, the door shut and bolted behind them, did Raoul fall to his knees, coughing until his face was beet red and tears streamed down his cheeks. Emily dropped beside him, rubbing his back and patting it gently as he coughed up fluid, whimpered, and trembled violently. Sympathetic tears prickled her own eyes, and a sharp pang of guilt stabbed her heart.

_Selfish little bitch, _her conscience hissed venomously. _You deserve to die for what you've done to this poor boy. You are the reason he is doubled over now, nearly killing himself to try to get to France. And for what? There is no brother waiting for him in Paris. Lying, murderous bitch! If he dies, it will be your fault!_

A stream of tears escaped down her cheek, but she brushed it away angrily before Raoul could notice. He continued coughing for an eternity, it seemed, before he collapsed on the hard wooden floor, too exhausted to move a muscle. Within moments his eyes rolled shut, and his body went limp. Were it not for the faint rattling of breath in his chest, Emily might have thought him dead. His eyes were sunken and rimmed with dark circles, but the rest of his face was bone-white and drenched in sweat. For a few seconds she sat paralyzed, unable to do anything but stare at his perfectly still form. When his fingers twitched slightly in sleep she snapped from her reverie, and immediately moved to roll him onto his back. Her face was twisted in unspeakable guilt, her lips a thin white line.

"I did not mean for you to suffer," she whispered brokenly as she ran her fingertips across his damp cheek. Two large tears pooled in her dark eyes, and streamed down her cheeks when she squeezed her lashes shut. "I only wanted your love, Raoul. Only your love."

Sniffling miserably, she smoothed his sandy hair and lifted his head and shoulders into her lap. For hours she sat there, stroking his hair and forehead, and occasionally brushing her lips across his flushed skin. She hardly noticed the boat's deafening whistle as it left port, nor the churning, rocking motion of the hull as it bobbed in the treacherous waves. Over time she fell into a trance-like state, somewhere between waking and sleeping, conscious and unconscious. Her hand moved of its own accord until she had memorized the feel of every one of Raoul's regal features. Time had no meaning during that endless trip; two hours or two years might have passed, and she would not have known the difference.

Raoul slept on, and she sat with him. Sometime in the haze of the ferry ride she was vaguely aware of a gentle rapping on her door; a snack vendor, asking if she or her husband cared to purchase anything. She didn't answer, and eventually he went away. Hours and hours later, after the light streaming through the port hole had made a full arc, the color ranging from white to yellow to orange to pink, and finally the faint blue of moonlight, the ship's deafening horn sounded, signaling their arrival in Perros. Raoul jolted awake at the noise, his bloodshot, frightened eyes scanning the dark room.

"We're 'ere," Emily said quietly, her voice strained and rough from so many hours of disuse. She planted one last kiss on his forehead before pressing her palm to the small of his back, helping him to sit up. His face was taut and pained as he moved his stiff muscles, but he bravely managed to stifle an agonized moan. A few weak coughs blew out his cheeks, but his body seemed too drained to do much more. This time, Emily practically carried him down the pier, enlisting a crewman to carry their baggage and direct them to their lodging in exchange for a hearty tip. Thankfully, the Setting Sun Inn was not too far inland from the dock, and she managed to bear Raoul's weight all the way to their reserved bedroom. It was a sleepy, small-town inn, with not too much business at this time of year. She saw no other customers milling about as the owner's son led her to the room and assisted her in lifting a half-conscious Raoul onto the bed.

"Is he well, Madame?" the boy asked in heavily-accented English. She shook her head and slipped a bill into his hand, too weary to answer questions. Fortunately he did not press further into the matter, but departed, eyeing his large tip excitedly. Had it been any other night, Emily would have berated herself for throwing away precious money on such petty causes, but tonight she was too exhausted to do anything more than remove her shoes, change into a nightgown, and crawl into bed. The hotel was poorly heated; her breath formed a white cloud as it left her mouth. Shivering in the thin muslin, she sidled closer to Raoul, molding her body to fit against his. It was an inexplicable feeling, being so close to one she loved— an innocent intimacy, but one of the most unforgettable moments of her life. With her face buried in the curve of his neck, his unique smell pervading her senses, and the warmth and security of his body pressed against hers, sleep claimed her in minutes.

------------------------------------------------

She had a sense— something was wrong.

Her dark eyes snapped open, scanning the empty bed beside her. For a moment she simply stared vacantly at the slight indentation in the mattress where Raoul had lain beside her only a few hours ago. In a heartbeat she was bolt upright, her gaze sweeping the room for any sign of him.

He was gone.

Emily did not even bother to grab her woolen shawl from the nightstand before racing into the dimly lit hall. Her heart thudded so loudly in her ears that she was sure it would wake every last guest in the inn. Bursting into the lobby, however, she found the entire place completely vacant, everyone having gone to bed hours ago. Even the staff seemed to have retired for the night.

Her eyes scanned the darkened foyer desperately, but Raoul was nowhere in sight. Frantic almost to the point of hysteria, she ran for the door and yanked on the handle.

Just as the door opened a crack, letting in a bitter wind, a cold hand clamped onto her bare shoulder. She swallowed the urge to shriek before relief settled over her stomach.

"Oh thank G—"

"Christine, what are—?"

It was not the person she had expected to see, and the same seemed to go for the strange, terrifying masked man in front of her. Immediately the hairs on the back of her neck bristled, and she prepared to land him a solid kick in the groin. She had lived among the lowlifes of Brighton for years, and the only men who wore masks in her experience were rapists, murderers, burglars, or some other dangerous criminals trying to escape recognition. If he so much as made a cloaked move for a concealed weapon, she wouldn't hesitate to cause permanent, excruciating damage to his genitals with one swift, sharp kick…

Needless to say, she was more than a little surprised when he suddenly let go of her shoulder, dipped his head, and brushed past her, through the door, and out into the night without another word. She stood rooted to the spot for a few seconds, staring incredulously at his retreating back. Only when he disappeared behind the corner of a house did she collect her wits enough to step back into the lobby and shut the door, turning to press her back against it. Her heart hammered mercilessly in her chest, her breathing shallow and labored. Something about that masked man sent cold tendrils shooting throughout her nervous system. The very last thing she wanted to do was go out in the dark, alone, in a strange town, with a frightening, possibly murderous masked man out there somewhere.

But then, Raoul was out there too, and she would sooner slice her own heart out than let the masked man get to him first. How could she live with herself, knowing that she had ripped a deathly ill man from his bed to traverse the sea, only to allow him to die at the hands of a madman while she cowered in the warm, safe hotel? Closing her eyes and drawing in a deep breath, she fumbled for the door handle again, and wrapping her arms about herself against the chill, ran off in the direction she had seen the masked man traveling.

Pale starlight and a half-moon illuminated her path through the tiny French village. Though she could no longer see the masked man, it looked as if he were heading for the docks, perhaps, or a street close to them. Shivering violently in the biting wind, she ducked her head and ran as fast as her bare feet would allow. Sharp rocks lodged themselves in the soles of her feet; she left a trail of red as she ran. Still she pressed on, desperate to find Raoul, though she was too afraid of the masked man to call out his name. Her eyes were peeled for any silhouette moving about in the moonlight, be it friend or foe.

The smooth crystals of sand were both a blessing and a curse to her aching feet; they seeped inside of her cuts, making them scream in agony, but at this point, she was happy to feel anything— for awhile her heart had clenched at the possibility that she would have to have her numb, frostbitten toes amputated.

Without any shelter against the frosty wind blowing off of the ocean, she thought for sure that she would freeze to death before finding Raoul. She stumbled and limped through the sand, sobs ripping at her raw throat. Her chapped lips formed his name, but her voice was paralyzed by fear, pain, and the cold.

When she finally discovered him standing calmly at the edge of a rocky cove, she thought she surely must have been hallucinating. Raoul stood with his face to the wind, studying the waves calmly and intently. Had she not known better, she might have thought the ocean was speaking to him in hushed, rolling whispers, in a language only he could understand. He certainly had the appearance of listening, enraptured, to an intriguing conversation.

It frightened her, and fascinated her. For several infinite moments she simply stood there watching him, dumbstruck. It seemed an eternity before she found enough power within her wind-beaten body to cry his name.

Raoul gave a little jolt at the noise, as if caught doing something inappropriate. His eyes turned slowly to her; they were glassy and clouded with fever. She ran to him, oblivious to her own pain, and threw her arms around him.

"Oh Raoul, thank God!" she cried, holding him tightly against her. His arms, chest, and back were freezing, though his cheek burned the back of her neck. Feverish or not, however, she could not suppress a brief outburst of maternal temper. Grabbing his shoulders, she ripped away from him, looked him square in the eye, and gave him a good shake. "What in Christ's name are you _doing_ out here? You'll catch your death! I'm not ready to be a widow. After all the work I've done trying to keep you from death's grip, here you come running out here in the dark of night in nothing more than a thin shirt and trousers when it's near to freezin' outside and you..."

He was looking directly at her, but he didn't appear to see or hear her. His lips moved, breathing a word she couldn't quite make out.

"What?" Emily demanded, bringing her ear within a centimeter of his mouth.

"Chri-stine," he rasped in an almost musical tone. "She's here. I saw her."

Her heart leapt into her throat, rendering her speechless. When she finally found her voice again, it was strangled by potent fear. "Raoul," she said slowly, her eyes wide. "You're very sick." She took hold of his arm and began to lead him firmly back toward the hotel. "Come now... let's go back..."

But he stood firmly in place, his legs rooted to the ground beneath him. "No!" he insisted. "I have to wait for her."

Sucking in a tremulous breath, she fought the tears that sprung to her eyes. "Raoul, please... Christine is dead, remember?"

"I saw her. I saw her!"

Desperation set in, clutching Emily's innards with excruciating force. "Yes... yes, I saw her too." At this, Raoul's eyes snapped to hers in surprise. Avoiding his gaze for fear of betraying her lie, she pointed toward the hotel. "See those trees over there? I saw her running in that direction. If we hurry, we might catch up."

He needed no more incentive than that. Despite his raging illness, he moved at twice the speed of Emily, who had to lift her skirts and jog to keep up. She paused only once to glance fearfully at the beach behind them. Her knees nearly buckled at the sight that greeted her.

The masked man stood in the exact same spot where they had been standing, the limp body of a woman-- his victim, Emily presumed-- clutched in his arms. His cloak whipped in the wind, sheathing his lithe frame in darkness, save the bone white mask, which almost seemed to glow menacingly in the moonlight. Though she could not see his eyes, she could feel the singeing heat of his gaze... and it was directed at her and Raoul.

An inhuman strength propelled her forward, as if her throbbing feet had sprouted wings. Grabbing Raoul's wrist, she sprinted toward the hotel, and did not stop until they were in her room, the door shut and bolted twice behind them.

**A/N: I -heart- Erik's cloak. -grins dreamily- **

**... Oh, I'm sorry. -glances around at murderous readers and gulps- Don't eat me?**


	34. Partners

**A/N: Hehe, I think you guys are going to like this chapter, if I'm not mistaken. Hope you all had a phantabulous Christmachanukwaanziramadaanica!**

**And because so many people have asked: I had a wonderful Christmas, thank you! My favorite presents were an ipod nano from my Daddy, an espresso machine from my mommy, and of course, my new horse (a real, living, breathing one! AAAH! –SQUEE-) from dad and stepmom. Me? Spoiled? Lol… **

Beneath his cool, deadly exterior, panic gripped Erik's chest with white-hot fingers. He glared at the Vicomte's retreating back, clutching Christine's limp form with bruising force.

_You were supposed to be dead, damn you! You were supposed to be DEAD!_

As soon as the initial shock of the boy's appearance dulled, he was left with the unrelenting impulse to put as much distance between Christine and her husband as humanly possible. The very instant the Vicomte's moonlit silhouette disappeared through the door of the Setting Sun, Erik turned his back and moved swiftly and silently in the opposite direction. He drew in deep, ragged breaths, fighting hard to maintain composure as nausea wrenched at his gut. He loped blindly down the beach, the sand sucking at his feet— it seemed the entire world was making a sport of pulling him down. But Erik would not be defeated this time; he never lost to an adversary twice… especially one who was supposed to be _dead_.

By the time he reached the door, Erik was shaking profusely, though whether from the cold or fury he could not tell. Gritting his teeth in a vain attempt to keep them from chattering, he marched upstairs and laid Christine in the master bed. His cloak had done well in sheltering her from the bitter wind, but her clothes were covered in wet sand, and the room was no warmer than the air outside. Glad for a task to take his mind from the encounter on the beach, he gently removed her damp nightgown and laid her beneath the thick coverlet, tucking it around her chin and shoulders. Still she did not wake, but whimpered softly, her brow creasing as if in confusion. Erik sat at her side, motionless, expecting her to rouse, but soon her forehead smoothed, and her head fell limply to the side again.

A fragile thread seemed to snap within him as he looked down at her angelic face, framed by a halo of curls. His chest constricted, and he let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The sound caught in his throat, escaping his lips in a quiet sob.

"I won't let him take you from me again," he whispered against her knuckles before pressing a trembling kiss to her palm.

With this proclamation, restlessness gripped his muscles with excruciating force. Sighing sharply, he dropped Christine's hand and rose on weak knees to release his pent-up tension in the best way he knew.

There were precisely eleven strides from one corner of the room to the one opposite it. He paced the length of the bedroom with the faultless tempo of a metronome, his eyes fixated blankly at a set distance on the floor ahead of him. Ever since he was a young child, Erik had found rhythmic motion to be the best way to clear his head and his temper, allowing room for rational, logical thought to take the place of mindless fury. This instance was no different.

A whirlwind of emotions roared through him, ranging from blood-curdling terror to outrage to hatred. With each stride he felt a bit of the white haze clear from his head, until his initial panic was simply an afterthought to the plans of revenge formulating in his mind. When at last Erik's soul was exhausted of its emotional rampage, he halted smartly in his tracks, his breathing and heartbeat steady. Eerily calm rationale spoke to him in a hushed whisper as he glided over to a plush armchair and settled down to think, the statue-like stillness of his posture the perfect contrast to his fevered pacing.

Erik's first concern, as always, was Christine. He kept his gaze locked on the floor, refusing to glance at her even for the most fleeting of moments. Even so, his chest tightened at the prospect of what he would be forced to do to keep her.

The basis of their relationship had been a lie. If there was fault Erik could find in those ten glorious years, it was his cowardice in refusing to tell his protégé the truth. Justified as his actions might have been in sparing his own pride, the fact that he had needed a blunt lie to earn Christine's trust and affection was sickening to him now. To have her sincere love, knowing that he was only a grotesquely deformed, broken man, was all the more beautiful to him. He had no need to dread the unveiling of his deepest, darkest secret, for she already knew and forgave it. The very last thing he wanted now was another lie, equally dark and painful, to cast its shadow over their relationship.

Damn that boy for forcing it upon them! Now Erik had no choice in the matter. He absolutely could not risk losing Christine to the Vicomte again. The remembrance of her professions only the night prior did not assuage his nerves on the matter; he didn't doubt the sincerity of those three precious words, but they had been uttered while she still believed her husband dead. To challenge that fact might shake the truth of the former— perhaps her love for Erik was conditional, based only on the precedent that her true love was deceased.

He could not gamble when Christine's love was at stake. Losing her once had left him a shell of the man he had once been. Losing her twice would destroy him.

A deep sigh escaped him in a gust as he passed a hand wearily over his eyes. Finally, he allowed his gaze to rise to Christine's sleeping form.

Once again, a lie would be his salvation.

Anger flared up as quickly as it had departed at the injustice of it all. Gritting his teeth, Erik leapt to his feet and propelled the armchair across the room with such force that it cracked and collapsed upon hitting the wall.

A rustling motion caused him to spin sharply, and look directly into Christine's open, dazed brown eyes. For a moment they simply stared at one another, motionless, before Christine broke eye contact and looked to the side, frowning in confusion.

"Where are we?" she asked groggily.

Erik swallowed against the painfully tense muscles of his throat, steeling himself as best he could. Schooling his features into a neutral expression, he crossed the room to her bedside and kneeled next to her.

"Home," was his quiet response. "Your father's house." Trying not to let his eyes betray him, he brushed a stray, frizzy curl behind her ear and looked down at her with genuine concern. Christine's questioning eyes begged the answer he was so reluctant to give. "You… were sleepwalking, Christine," he lied through his teeth, hating himself more each moment. "I woke to see the door shutting behind you, and followed you down to the beach. When I tried to wake you, you fell unconscious, so I brought you here immediately."

His heart felt as if it had turned to lead. Christine's mystified expression was replaced with a pained combination of remorse, understanding, and guilt as he explained the fictitious situation. She pursed her lips and nodded, suddenly very pale.

"It was a dream," she whispered absently, more to herself than to Erik.

"What's the matter, love?" He took her hand, rubbing the abnormally cold skin. Outwardly he was the picture of composure, but inside he was struggling to fight down a wounded cry. It was as if each false word that spilled from his lips was a needle through his heart; if he kept on for much longer he would surely bleed to death.

Christine shook her head and lay back down with a groan, turning to bury her face in the down pillows. "Nothing," she said. "A nightmare, that's all."

_A nightmare… _He quickly shut the vocabulary choice from mind before it could rekindle the flame of hope in his broken heart.

"Tell me." He clenched his teeth, praying that she would ignore him. The last thing he wanted was to see her eyes glaze over with love at the thought of seeing her husband again.

Shaking her head, she passed a hand over her brow, as if suffering a headache. "It's silly, really. Being here again… I mean…" She glanced apologetically up at him and shrugged. "It's nothing. Old memories manifesting themselves in dreams."

"That is to be expected," Erik offered sadly.

Christine forced a weak smile and leaned up to kiss him. It took immeasurable force to keep from wrenching away from her in shame. As it was, he could no longer look at her. Only when her lips parted from his and she scooted over in bed, patting the empty space beside her, did he manage to collect his wits enough to do anything but stare guiltily at his hands. They sighed almost in the same moment as he kicked off his sand-crusted shoes and slipped beneath the covers, burying his face in the curve of her neck.

"I love you," he breathed, as if uttering one complete, irrefutable truth would help mend the damage he had already done.

"And I love _you_," Christine replied too quickly. He closed his eyes on tears, pressed a tender kiss to the nape of her neck, and did not move another muscle until she was fast asleep.

Restlessness claimed him again hours after Christine's muscles had gone limp. Lying idly in bed, even next to his beloved, was cruel and unusual punishment to Erik's churning mind. Long before the sky began to pale with impending sunlight, he could take no more.

For hours, he had pondered whether or not it would just be easiest to murder the Vicomte in his sleep, and never have to worry about bumping into him unexpectedly again. His conscience and protective instincts battled in circles until he could feel a migraine coming on. At last he settled on a compromise: this time, the boy would leave with his life. But if his name so much as grazed the most under-regarded tabloid in the slums of Paris, Erik would hunt him down and extinguish the rumor before it had an ounce of breathing room.

Entirely focused on the Vicomte himself, it took Erik another good hour of pacing and reflection before he remembered the boy's little British companion— a whore if he had ever seen one. He halted immediately in his tracks, his mind reeling.

In a heartbeat he was moving again, one hand clasped firmly on the Punjab lasso. More than anything, he needed information on his adversary's plans— why he was here, where he had come from, what had come to pass in the two months since his disappearance.

Information he was positive he could juice out of the boy's skittish little whore quite easily.

He nearly laughed aloud when he found the Vicomte's hotel door bolted securely. It had been all too simple to get his room number from the naïve lobbyist— Erik was a paying customer, after all. That the little whore was foolish enough to believe that a few ounces of steel could keep the infamous Phantom of the Opera from entering was utterly amusing. Without so much as batting an eyelash, he stepped back out into the cold night and slipped around to the window. It, too, was locked, but a quick swipe of a hairpin solved the problem. There was no sound or motion inside; the Vicomte and his prostitute were fast asleep. Silently he brushed aside the curtain and slipped through the open window. Sure enough, the boy was lying asleep in bed, the British woman slumped over in a wooden chair pressed against the door for extra security.

Rolling his eyes, Erik drew the Punjab from his belt and crossed the room soundlessly. He slipped the catgut around the whore's neck and tightened it just enough to prevent her from screaming. The woman's dark eyes snapped open in terror, and quickly found his in the darkness. Her mouth worked soundlessly, and Erik eyed her with an almost bored air as he tugged at the end of the Punjab, gesturing to the window.

"Come," he mouthed.

The woman sat as if rooted to the chair, her eyes beginning to water. Sighing, Erik pulled a dagger from his belt and pointed it at the sleeping Vicomte.

"Come or he dies," he tried again.

She followed obediently.

Erik dragged her through the window, musing that he had never really liked dogs. Turning to the choking woman as if it were completely routine to steal prostitutes from their hotel rooms in the dark of night, he loosened the lasso and replaced it with the tip of the dagger.

"Now," he began calmly, as if conducting a business meeting. "Tell me everything you know about that man."

To his mild surprise, her eyes narrowed viciously. "No."

As a rule, Erik did not kill women, but this one was beginning to weigh heavily on his nerves. "Perhaps you did not understand me, child," he hissed, digging the tip of the dagger just far enough into her neck to draw a bead of blood. "It was not a suggestion. I will not hesitate to kill you both if you choose to be uncooperative."

The woman stood mute, glaring up at him.

"Let us try this again, shall we? What is your name?" he pressed, a hint of aggravation creeping into his tone.

"Emily," she answered sullenly as he pressed the knife harder against her throat. Immediately he alleviated the pressure, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.

"You see? This isn't so difficult. Now… tell me the name of the man sleeping in that room."

This time her hesitation was longer. He had to draw blood again before she gasped, "Raoul! His name is Raoul."

"Raoul what?"

"I don' know." Her eyes flooded with tears when he dug the knife in again. "Leave me be! I don' know! 'E never told me."

Erik bit back a curse. Perhaps she wouldn't be as useful as he had hoped. "Where did you meet him?"

"In England."

"And what do you know of him? What has he told you about himself?"

She looked away, refusing to meet his gaze. Growling, Erik brought his face close to hers threateningly, repeating the questions.

"Your breath reeks of rotten eggs," she spat, her eyes flashing angrily.

In response, he only moved his mouth closer to hers, a snarl pulling at his lips. Emily trembled beneath the pressure of the dagger's silver tip, but she was doing one hell of a job of masking her fear, Erik noted.

"Do you really believe this the appropriate occasion for curt humor?" he snarled.

After a few seconds of silence, she lowered her gaze in submission. "Whatever fight you 'ad with 'im, jus' forget it, alright?"

"Impossible," Erik snorted, his patience wearing thin. "I assure you, mademoiselle, he is very deserving of my grudge. Now I grow very weary of asking you this: _What—has—he—told—you_?" When she remained mute, he leaned forward and whispered menacingly in her ear, "Or shall I be forced to rip him from his bed and ask him myself?"

"'E's very sick…"

Erik made a clicking noise in the back of his throat. "A pity I'll have to rouse him, then…"

"Let me finish!" she hissed. Chewing her lower lip until blood trickled down her chin, she glared at his chest and answered furiously, "Whatever 'appened between the two of you, 'e don' remember none of it. 'E can't remember a bloody thing! So jus' leave us alone and—"

He sucked in a sharp breath and held it, unable to believe his ears. While Emily was still babbling, he dropped the dagger out of shock, but before she could register the absence of danger he remembered himself and locked his fingers around her throat.

"What did you say?" he demanded, his eyes flashing.

"… When we pulled 'im out of the water, 'e couldn' remember nothin' from before…"

"Amnesia," Erik supplied impatiently, giving her a small shake. "You're telling me he has amnesia?"

"Yes!" she sighed, squirming in his strong grip. "I've only been tryin' to tell yeh for…"

But whatever she said next went completely unheard. Erik stared blankly at her, his grip loosening unconsciously. In a flash, she had ducked out of his grasp and scooped up the dagger, bringing it to his own throat. Erik hardly had time to gasp before she slammed him against the wall, jabbing one knee in his groin for good measure. He cursed vehemently at himself for such recklessness… he hadn't been caught in decades. Of course, it would be all too easy to slip from her grasp— a knife was no threat whatsoever, especially in the hands of an amateur— but the fact that he had been so careless as to allow her to turn the tables was utterly humiliating.

"Now, _monsieur_, I 'ave a few questions of my own," Emily said coldly, her eyes crackling with triumph.

Erik held perfectly still, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. He was just preparing to blind her with a sudden explosion (compliments of a bottle of a highly-flammable chemical and the spare match tucked in his belt for special occasions) when she asked her first question, stopping him cold.

"Who's Christine?"

His temper exploded. "You filthy liar! You said he couldn't remem-"

"I didn' lie about nothin'! 'E 'as dreams about 'er— nightmares— but 'e wakes up and can't remember nothin' but 'er name."

Only a bit of relief accompanied this new revelation, but then again, Erik was not foolish enough to trust a whore's word. Watching her through narrowed eyes, he answered slowly, "He was in love with her."

At this, Emily scowled and cursed shamelessly. Privately, Erik couldn't agree more. Suddenly it occurred to him that maybe… just maybe, this woman had developed a romantic attachment to the Vicomte. She certainly seemed protective enough of him, but that could be dismissed for any number of reasons. However, the expression on her face was all too familiar…

"Answer me honestly," he said, unthinkingly allowing himself to hope. "Do you love him?"

Emily jolted involuntarily, looking at him with wide eyes before jabbing the dagger into his neck as punishment for his bluntness. "I thought I was the one askin' the questions here."

"Ah, but you would be making a grave mistake indeed if you were to dismiss this particular query, mademoiselle."

"An' why's that?"

He smirked humorlessly. "Several reasons… but among the most interesting to you, I'm sure, is that Christine is in Perros-Guirec at this very minute."

One of Emily's eyebrows shot up, and she betrayed her unease by glancing anxiously through the open window at the sleeping Vicomte. "I'm listenin'."

"As it turns out, Christine happens to be traveling with me. I believe I would be correct in asserting that neither you nor I wish to see her reunited with Raoul?"

She nodded hesitantly, searching his eyes for a hint of deceit. When she found none, she answered quietly, "Aye, you would."

"I thought so." Erik's gaze shifted meaningfully to the dagger still pressed harmlessly to his neck. "It had not occurred to me that you would be so useful. Perhaps we can both be of some assistance to one another."

A long, pensive silence ensued before Emily lowered her weapon and took a step back. "What are you suggestin'?"

**A/N: Oooh, Emily and Erik… THIS should be fun! –winks- But don't get any ideas, oh ye E/OW shippers! –tssk tssk-**

**Keep your seatbelts buckled, ladies and gents; it's about to become a rather bumpy ride!**

–**raises eyebrows at the lurkers- A funny thing happened when I strolled on over to the "Stats" section… **

**There are 67 of you who have me on author alert, and I haven't ever heard from 75 percent of you! Can I pretty, pretty please get a review, because it's the holiday season and you love me? Maybe? –puppy eyes-**

**Hugs, kisses, love, affection, and adoration to my lovely, lovely reviewers who have stuck with me through the Terrible, Desolate Land of Boring Fillers!**


	35. Rome

**A/N: -showers beloved reviewers in affection- I LOVE you guys! That was the most reviews I've ever received for a single chapter. Sorry this update took so long, but hopefully it's well worth it. For the plethora of much appreciated reviews, have a nice fluffy chapter, eh? **

"Rome?" Christine echoed incredulously, her brows knitted.

An unidentifiable emotion darkened the visible side of Erik's face. "You no longer wish to go?"

She opened and closed her mouth several times, utterly bemused. "No… I mean, yes, I do, but—" Her eyes searched his, seeking the elusive truth beneath the unshakable blockade of his stubbornness. There was something he wasn't telling her; she had known it the second she woke from that horrid nightmare. Just precisely what he had chosen to hide from her, and why, were more difficult problems to deduce. She was wise enough to know that pressing the matter directly would get her nowhere. Tactical questioning seemed to be her best option.

Searching her mind desperately, Christine finally settled on her first course. "But what about this house?"

Erik reclined casually on the bed beside her, offering a dismissive wave of his hand. "It will still be here waiting for us when we return. Besides, it will be a few weeks before the repairs to the roof and insulation are finished."

He was right, of course. Chewing her lip and frowning, she tried once more. "Erik, you know it's my dream to perform again, but… my voice is in such disrepair." She pressed her fingertips to her throat for emphasis. "I couldn't possibly—"

"If I were not in such a benevolent mood," he countered unflinchingly, "I might have taken that as an insult, my dear." But even the twinkle in his eyes seemed forced.

A childish impatience began to constrict Christine's chest. "Oh, don't be silly. You know what I mean."

Erik tilted his head as he studied her. "No, I'm afraid I don't." When she didn't immediately respond, he reached up a finger to lift her chin. "If you are unhappy, I will practice with you every morning until you reach a satisfactory level. But even on your worst day, you out-sing every diva in Europe. Surely you must know that."

She almost succumbed to his blatant flattery— _almost_. Curling her legs beneath her to resist stomping her foot, Christine gave up all hope of gaining any information subtly. The man was simply impossible! With an exasperated sigh, she grasped a handful of his shirt and forced him to meet her gaze.

"Why now, Erik?" she demanded. "I don't understand you! Two nights ago, you were terrified by the prospect of me leaving for Rome. Now you seem dead-set on it. What happened to change your mind so suddenly?"

For a fleeting moment, she saw the nameless emotion stir in his eyes before his defenses slammed up again, blocking her out.

"It had not occurred to me to accompany you. If you decided to leave with the Girys, I assumed it would…" He faltered, and she finished his sentence a bit more harshly than intended.

"...Be another betrayal."

Erik stared up at her coolly, lifting one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "We don't have to go, Christine. It was merely a suggestion. I thought you wanted to resume your career, and far be it for me to restrain you."

"You're changing the subject," she noted irritably. He sat up then, a maddening smirk curling his lips. Huffing, she slammed her open palm down on the bed. "What in God's name could _possibly_ be amusing at a time like this?" At this, he tilted his head back and laughed— a rich, resounding noise which still had the power to shake her soul. "Don't you dare mock me, Erik! It's not funny! I'm being… serious…" Her voice faded and sputtered out as he brought his smiling lips to her neck, kissing a gentle trail to the sensitive skin just behind her ear. To her irritation, even as her pride raged and fumed, she felt her muscles slacken.

"Mock you?" Erik breathed, nipping at her earlobe before his tongue slid forward to ease the sting. "Why, I'd never dream of it…"

She wanted so badly to pull away from his warm, damp mouth, but instead found herself tilting her head back instinctively to offer him easier access. Trying to cement her delicate features into a scowl, she allowed her voice to do the fighting while her body basked in his delicious physical attentions.

"I'd suggest you … wipe that … arrogant smirk from … your face, monsieur! You cannot just … seduce me into … submission when … you don't get your … way."

"No, no, most certainly not," he murmured against her collarbone. The sensual movement of his lips on her skin only served to intensify the hot ache growing between her legs. Irritated, she pressed her thighs together, bound and determined not to let Erik win. She had cornered him with accusations, just millimeters from discovering his lie of omission. If he thought that with a few heated kisses he could wriggle his way out of telling her the truth, he couldn't be more wrong! Christine would not fall prey to his seductive little spell…

She wouldn't.

_Wouldn't_…

Looking back, she noted tetchily that she _had_ at least managed to restrain herself for a few minutes. Certainly she couldn't blame herself for being human; no woman on earth could have resisted Erik's maddening, feather-light caresses and open, inviting lips for long. His masculine beauty was overpowering.

As she drowned in his kiss, her tongue surging forward to embrace his, she wondered vaguely at God's mysterious ways. Perhaps Erik's deformity was necessary, she mused, in making him human. Had he been born with the right side of his face as neatly sculpted as the left, still possessing his angelic voice, unprecedented genius, and graceful, almost feline movements, Christine could not imagine any limits to his life's potential. He might have been a famous architect or composer, a renowned artist, popular with all the nobles and monarchs in Europe… perhaps he might even have become a king himself— no, an emperor— with the entire world's power at his elegant fingertips. All the beautiful women in the world would have swooned at his feet, and he would have had his choice of any of them. She would never have met him, she realized … never have heard his enrapturing voice… never kissed him…

Her heart clenched painfully at the thought, and she pressed herself closer to him, running her fingers lovingly over the mottled, malformed skin of his right cheek. Never before had it occurred to her how much a few protruding bones and reddened skin had affected her life. Although this seemingly cruel twist of fate had meant half a lifetime of suffering for her beloved, it had brought them together in the end. Wasn't it more of a blessing than a curse?

Caught up in her runaway fantasies, Christine completely forgot to feign anger, and eventually forgot what she was supposed to be angry _about_. Breathless from the glorious pressure of Erik's greater weight and having the air stolen from her lungs by his torturous kisses, she could hardly remember her own name, let alone where she was and what had happened in the past few hours. The image of Raoul's silhouette on the beach dissolved in the white hot haze that enveloped her mind. Half-drunk with desire, she clawed at his shirt, desperate for the blinding pleasure of his flesh joined with hers.

She thought her lungs would collapse from the sudden shock of air as he pulled away, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. Her own eyes were wide and clouded with confusion as she whimpered involuntarily, trying to pull his mouth back down to hers. Unfortunately, Erik was much stronger, and he brushed aside her shaking hands with ease.

"I'm a bit tired," he lied with a wolfish grin, pecking her on the nose before pulling the covers up to his chin and rolling onto his side. "And we both need our rest. The boat leaves at noon." He turned his head to glance over his shoulder at her, and his grin broadened upon seeing her swollen red lips agape. "But don't worry, _il mio amore… ci sarà l'abbondanza di tempo per fare l'amore quando siamo in Roma_." **((A/N: See translation at the end))**

Long after his breathing had become deep and even with sleep, Christine stared blankly at his shoulder blades, trying to piece together what precisely had just happened. She cursed herself repeatedly for having ignored the great deal of opportunities for her to learn foreign languages— after ten years in Western Europe's melting pot of cultural diversity, and the previous seven years spent traveling the continent, she knew only her native French, shaky English, and how to request directions to the nearest restroom in Russian, Swedish, German, and Spanish.

Eight hours later, she still wasn't entirely sure why she was carting a rather heavy trunk full of her clothing down to the dock in downtown Perros-Guirec. She had asked Erik twice, only to be told impatiently that they absolutely must make this ship out, because there would not be another until the following Wednesday. As far as she was concerned, she had never actually _agreed_ to leave for Rome, but evidently that didn't matter to Erik. Deciding that she had no real reason to fight him tooth and nail over departing for a country she had always wanted to visit, she obeyed quietly. But it was not the trip itself that unnerved her— rather Erik's unwavering insistence that they leave with haste. Something had shaken him, Christine was certain, but she still had no idea what had gone on while she was unconscious. She was beginning to think she would never know.

Much to Erik's chagrin, the first-class suites had all been reserved. After a forty minute argument with the ticket salesman and Christine's quiet pleading to just get onboard, Erik grumpily purchased two second-class tickets to Rome. Christine went deathly pale when the ticket vendor informed them that the ship would make day-long stops in both Lisbon and Barcelona before continuing on to Italy and Corsica. She looked at her lover, expecting a violent outburst at the delay; but to her unending surprise, Erik merely nodded grimly, hired a smartly-dressed porter to carry their luggage, and led her by the arm up into the hull.

Their accommodations were comfortable enough, if a bit cramped. Unfortunately, Erik didn't seem to share her optimistic appraisal of the situation. The very moment they stepped into the small, whitewashed room, an unexplained panic seemed to seize him. The blood drained from his cheeks, leaving him pale and sweaty. He moved immediately to the circular window and threw it open, taking in heaving breaths of air as if surfacing from an extended period underwater. Alarmed, Christine waved away the boy carrying their luggage and gripped Erik's shoulder, trying to get him to look at her.

"What's the matter?" He wrenched away from her grasp, which only served to frighten her more. "Erik, what's wrong? Should I call the doctor? Say something!"

"No," he gasped, shaking his head. "I'll… I'll be fine. Just… unpack the bags." His reddened eyes snapped pleadingly to hers when she stood rooted to the spot. "Please, Christine."

Wide-eyed and equally pale, she nodded and did as she was told. She could not help but glance over her shoulder at him as she unfolded their clothes and hung them in the closet. Erik had one arm braced against the wall for support, his head hanging limply forward, his shoulders hunched. Gradually he managed to get his labored breathing under control, but the wild, panicked look never left his eyes. Afraid to go near him even after their belongings were properly stowed, Christine stood indecisively in the middle of the room, wringing her hands nervously.

After what seemed hours, he spoke calmly and gently to her, though his posture did not change. "There is no need to be alarmed, Christine. I apologize." Slowly he raised his head, his muscles trembling as if that simple motion were exhausting. The skin around his lips tightened in a failed attempt at a smile as he locked eyes with her. "Just a bit of claustrophobia, my dear…" Bitterness flashed in those emerald eyes, making her shudder. "One of the unfortunate remnants of eight years spent in a cage." Her heart melted, and she took a step forward, intending to embrace him. He raised a hand sharply, his breath coming in ragged gasps again. "No, no, please… stay back there."

Helplessness and despair washed over her in a flood, bringing tears to her eyes. How she hated to see him suffer! "Tell me what I can do, _mon ange_. Anything…"

A deep, despondent sigh escaped him as he shut his eyes wearily. "Sing for me."

Christine swallowed the line up of excuses that formulated in her mind, knowing they would get her nowhere. "What would you like to hear?"

"Anything."

She had been afraid he would say that. Swallowing several more times to clear her throat, she closed her eyes and began to sing quietly.

_Laisse-moi, laisse-moi  
Contempler ton visage sous la pale claret_  
_Laisse-moi, laisse-moi  
L'astre de la nuit comme une  
Nuage, caresse ta beaute  
Rien pas une voix ne glisse  
A mon oreile un mot consolateur  
O silence! O bonheur! Ineffable mystere!  
Envivant languer!  
L'ecoute et je comprends cette voix solitaire  
Qui chante dans mon Coeur!_

Faust had always been one of Erik's favorite operas, and Christine's too; she was much more comfortable singing in her native tongue. The tension seemed to drain from the air, replaced by the soothing notes of the aria. Trembling much less vigorously than before, Erik staggered across the room and collapsed on the bed, tucking his limbs against his chest. He did not so much as flicker an eyelash as she moved to kneel beside him and began stroking his soft hair, all the while humming softly. After awhile his breathing became even and his muscles slackened— but just when she believed him asleep, he opened one eye and reached out an arm invitingly. She hesitated, remembering his previous instructions to stay back, and he offered a weak, encouraging smile.

"I'm much better now, _mon amour_," he assured her, reaching the hand up to stroke her cheek. "_Merci_." Christine watched him warily for another few seconds before crawling into the warm circle of his arms. When he did not stiffen at the closeness of their bodies, she allowed herself to relax. Although she had spent the last few hours asleep in the familiar comfort of her father's house, she felt as if she had been awake all night. Her eyelids were suddenly unbearably heavy, but just as they slipped shut, the ship's horn let out a deafening honk, jarring her awake. She sat up in shock, smacking her head on the wooden bunk above her, and moaned loudly as she fell back down on the mattress, pouting and clutching her smarting head. Erik tried good-naturedly to suppress a grin, but eventually they both erupted in laughter as the boat swayed and jolted erratically with the first awkward turns of the propellers.

She smiled at him as the two of them lay back down, their bodies molded perfectly together in the tight space.

"Rome," she whispered incredulously, her eyes sparkling with love for the man beside her.

"Rome," Erik agreed, kissing her reverently on the forehead before they both drifted into a long, uninterrupted sleep.

_(Translation from earlier: "There will be plenty of time to make love when we're in Rome!)_

**A/N: Bam! Plot twist. Italy? Sure, why not! -ties up loose ends with the Girys- I actually surprised myself with that one while lost in "Erik Mode." Seems logical though, eh? Smart little Erik and Emily... putting Christine and Raoul in entirely different COUNTRIES! Wow! Now they'll NEVER be able to hook up again! Right?**

**-malicious grin-**

**Stay tuned and find out!**

_**P.S. Is it just me, or is the thought of Erik murmuring something about making love in Italian ridiculously sexy?**_


	36. Audition

**A/N: Welcome, my dears, to Italy! Erik needed at least a FEW chapters of relief before I toss him back into the storm. Forgive the fillers, guys. Just enjoy the semi-fluff while it lasts.**

The Hotel Gabriella was nothing remarkable, really, but good bargains were difficult to find in the Eternal City, and at least it had clean sheets and reasonably friendly staff. But so enamored by Rome itself was Erik that he hardly took notice of his accommodations. As he hardly slept anyway, he merely made sure Christine found the place satisfactory before booking a suite for the next month. Though she was clearly exhausted from the trip, he could not help but prattle like an excited child as he and a bellboy hauled their luggage from the hansom up to the room.

"There are so many things I must show you while we're here. You'll love the basilica, I'm sure, and we shall visit the Colosseum, and the Villa Medici, and the Pantheon, of course, and you simply _must_ see the Roseto Comunale…"

Christine fanned herself lethargically with a paper fan, her cheeks flushed with heat. "May I take a nap first?" she moaned irritably.

"But of course, _il mio innamorato_," he laughed, oblivious to her petulance. "Rome wasn't built in a day, so we certainly shan't _see_ it in one day!"

For once, everything seemed to be going according to plan. The boat had come into port two hours ahead of schedule, arriving just as the glorious red sun opened a new day in Rome. It had been far too long since he had visited the Eternal City, Erik decided, the moment he stepped off that godforsaken ship.

It was as if he had left all of his troubles in France, including the wretched Vicomte… who, by some fortunate twist of fate, had absolutely no idea he was a Vicomte. For the moment, everything was right as rain; Emily had sworn to keep him updated by post as to where they were, what they were up to, and any immediate plans. Just to be sure, he had written Nadir with vivid instructions to inform him if anyone so much as breathed a word about the Vicomte de Chagny's return.

With hundreds of miles and several national borders separating them, Erik could finally relax and enjoy some quality time with his lover in one of the world's most romantic cities.

He was only slightly disappointed when she brushed past him and collapsed on the bed, asleep before her head hit the pillow.

Sighing good-naturedly, he shook his head, tipped the bellboy, and unpacked the luggage himself. After checking to make sure Christine was soundly asleep, he slipped down to the lobby and enquired as to whether any mail had arrived for a M. Erik Guerrier. He cringed only slightly upon grumbling his family name to the receptionist; damned international postal service required a surname. He had disowned his father's name decades ago, never intending to use it again… but it made no sense to make up another one. It was just a name.

The fiery little prostitute had kept her word, after all. Her letter was crudely sealed, as if she had mailed it in a hurry, the handwriting slapdash and terse:

_Erik,_

_The train for Paris leaves in twenty minutes. Raoul and I shall be onboard. Was able to convince him that he saw Christine only in a fevered dream. He (and here the text was too smudged to read) a red scarf? Will write again in Paris._

_Sincerely,_

_Emily Neilson_

Nodding serenely, Erik tucked the letter in his pocket, checked on the sleeping Christine once more, and set out to the open-air markets. Over the past few weeks, he had developed the habit of purchasing food on a regular basis, as Christine had the irksome (but forgivable) necessity to eat every few hours. Occasionally she managed to talk him into swallowing a few bites of the food he prepared, but more than a few swallows usually made him nauseous. Nevertheless, he remembered enjoying Giovanni's cooking during his stay in Rome… one of the only occasions he could remember taking pleasure from food. He had actually taken the time to study the art of cooking all those years ago— just another of the countless trades he had picked up from his kind, elderly master.

Seventeen haggles later, he returned to the Hotel Gabriella with an armful of groceries: vinegar, olive oil, fresh pasta, basil, parsley, garlic, bread, and ripe tomatoes. An hour later, when Christine awoke, her stomach gave a terrific growl as she sat up and sniffed the air. The sound was quickly followed by an awed gasp; he had set up a little table with a white tablecloth and glowing candles, crammed to the edge with succulent Italian dishes.

Rubbing her eyes, she crawled out of bed and moved over to embrace him, her eyes never leaving the table. "When did you— I mean, I never knew you—"

Erik silenced her with a kiss, pulling out her chair like a perfect gentleman. "When in Rome…" he said with a shrug.

They spent the next two hours devouring every last scrap of food on the table, downing six glasses of wine each (though it tolled much heavier on Christine), discussing plans for touring the city, and making final decisions about her audition at the opera in the morning.

"Much as I'd love to see you as the resident diva here, I'm afraid it's too great a risk," Erik said gravely, twirling his empty glass between his thumb and forefinger. "You are a very memorable performer, my dear. Unfortunately, we cannot allow Rome a taste of the magnificence you delivered in Paris."

"What are you suggesting?" Christine asked around a sip of wine.

Erik sighed, setting down his glass and taking her left hand gently. "You must understand, Christine, that it's remarkably difficult to ask you to tarnish your voice. To… purposefully mar such a beautiful instrument seems almost blasphemous." Honest distress clouded his eyes as he brushed his thumb over her knuckles. "But we cannot chance anyone discovering your identity, what with…" He hesitated, and Christine finished bitterly.

"With the rumor that I am a bloodthirsty, greedy, adulterous husband-killer." She looked away, nodding. "I understand."

Unable to bear the tension hanging between them, Erik rose and moved to kneel beside her, lifting her chin with his forefinger. "None of that, _il mio amore_," he whispered, kissing her shoulder. "It is behind us now. We must simply take precautions to keep those demons locked in the past."

Without turning to look at him, Christine asked quietly, "And what of the future?"

Erik swallowed hard as his breath hitched in his chest. It was such a straightforward question… almost a plea for some sort of anchor to ground her. After what she had suffered, he understood that she needed a pillar of support. The question lingered in the air between them, suffocating in its intensity. Did he want to commit himself to her for the rest of his life? It was the most ridiculous question he'd ever heard; he had been devoted to her, mind, body, and soul, from the very moment he had heard her voice over ten years ago. Did he want to marry her? Of course… though the sacrament meant nothing to him religiously, he appreciated the symbolism of binding himself to her for the rest of his life.

But as always, doubt reared its ugly head, dragging him down the slick slope into the recesses of his mind, and a plague of dark memories.

_It's in your soul that the true distortion lies…_

_Pitiful creature of darkness…_

_We had such hopes and now those hopes are shattered!_

_The tears I might have shed for your dark fate grow cold and turn to tears of hate!_

And suddenly his strength failed him.

Fighting hard to quell the onslaught of shivers that ran the length of his spine, he answered softly, "I wish I knew, my love." When tears gathered in Christine's eyes, he had to fight back his own. Desperate to restore some of the night's romance, he pulled her into a tight, warm embrace, silently cursing himself for his cowardice. This was the second time he had failed to come through with a proposal. He swore to himself that it would be the last, inventing all sorts of excuses for his failure this time: they were both drunk, the timing was wrong, she had just gone through emotional trauma with the "dream" of seeing Raoul on the beach, and the list went on.

His heart felt hollow as he lifted her into his arms and brought her to the bed. Christine did not resist as he gently peeled away her nightgown and covered her angelic body in kisses, but neither did she respond with her usual ardor. They made love, but it was half-hearted, almost forced. When Christine curled over on her side, with her back facing him, he suddenly had the irrational terror that he had lost her forever. Biting back tears, he molded his body against hers and hugged her bare back to his chest.

It was a very, very long night.

-------------------------------------

_The next day…_

Lady Bianca di Gama could not have been a day over eighteen. Pale as fresh cream, bright-eyed, and with flaxen tresses that cascaded airily over her slender shoulders, she seemed almost to glow incandescently in the stage lights. Every eye in the room rested on her elegant frame, accented by a flattering gold silk gown and the diamonds that dripped from her ears, wrists, and neck.

It was if a Roman goddess herself had floated onto the stage to grace her subjects with a taste of heavenly music.

Erik scowled, absently tightening his grip on Christine's arm. She hardly seemed to notice; like all the other women waiting for their auditions, she sat rigid and pale, her self-confidence shattered by the appearance of this ostensibly divine competition.

"Not to worry, my dear," he whispered, leaning over to kiss her earlobe. "I have seen many a wealthy, doting parent pay so-called 'experts' to tell their spoiled daughters that they sing like angels, only to be humiliated in affairs such as this. Reserve your judgment until you've heard her sing. If I were a gambling man, I'd bet she has the voice of a strangled goat."

Christine smiled weakly and squeezed his fingers. "You are a very persuasive liar, Erik. Thank you." But as he opened his mouth to protest, Lady Bianca began to sing.

A reverent, awed silence hung in the air long after she had finished the aria, bowed, and exited the stage. The next woman in line ran for the exit in tears, followed by the three girls following her in sequential order.

Christine turned back to face him, one eyebrow arched. "Then it's a very good thing indeed you aren't a gambling man," she commented wryly.

The judges murmured and nodded amongst themselves before an elderly, bespectacled one raised his head and scanned the remaining performers. "Marguerite Giry?"

Next to him, Christine began to fidget and wring her hands, pausing from chewing her lip only long enough to flash a reassuring grin at her best friend. "You'll be fine," she mouthed.

Smiling wryly, Erik leaned over and whispered in her ear, "You're a very persuasive liar. I'm sure she's appreciative." His grin only widened when she smacked him playfully on the thigh, and some of the tension drained from her muscles. She sighed shakily and resumed biting her lower lip as Meg stepped up onto the stage. Erik wasn't watching the talented little ballerina, however; he met her mother's eyes briefly, offering a curt nod. Madame Giry raised her chin slightly in acknowledgment before devoting her full attention to her daughter.

Poor little Meg looked as if she were about to faint from terror as she stepped into the spotlight, swallowing hard. She squeezed her eyes shut for a fleeting moment before the music began, and suddenly it was as if a completely different girl stood in her place. In mere seconds she transitioned from a nervous child to the experienced performer she truly was, bending and twirling gracefully in perfect sync with the music. Landing ten complicated aerial movements in a row, she earned a brief, appreciative applause from those gathered in the auditorium, and impressed smiles from two of the three judges. Erik chanced a glance at her mother, and found her expression characteristically neutral and severe, though her heel tapped almost imperceptibly to the rhythm of the strings. It seemed a very speedy audition; soon the tune came to an end, with Meg easing fluidly into her final position. Thunderous applause filled the auditorium, and she smiled bashfully, offering a quick curtsy.

"Excellent, excellent! Thank you very much, Signorina," the judge called as she exited the stage, looking very impressed indeed. He had only to glance at his peers before scribbling what Erik guessed to be Meg's name on the roster for the Roman _corpo di ballo_. A moment later, he raised his bald head again and called, "Juliette Guerrier?"

Stiffening, Erik touched Christine's shoulder. "That's you. Go."

She spun to face him, wide-eyed. "What?"

"I couldn't very well use your true name with half of Europe looking for you," he hissed urgently. "Now go." As she stood, still looking bewildered, he grasped her hand, staring meaningfully up at her. "Remember: do well, but not your best. We cannot risk them casting you in the lead role."

"I don't think that will be a problem," she assured him, glancing sideways at Lady Bianca. Her shoulders lifted and sunk in a heavy sigh as she ascended the stairs to the stage. After curtsying politely to the judges, she locked gazes with Erik and refused to break eye contact. He met her stare calmly, the picture of composure, while inwardly his stomach was churning. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Christine could secure one of the lead soprano roles in this opera house just as easily as she had done in Paris, even without the unseen, authoritative nudges of her Angel of Music. But fame did not come without a price. There would be suitors calling on her, newspaper reports written on the mysterious new diva… it was all just a bit too precarious for his comfort. Parisians often ventured into Rome to visit family and friends or tour the ancient city, and unless they had been living as hermits, locked up in their estates without any outside contact, they would have heard of the de Chagny scandal, the abduction of Christine Daaé, and the Phantom of the Opera, let alone the rumors of murder and inheritance circulating about Paris.

This time, the Angel of Music could not make Christine into the star she deserved to be. But neither could he keep her from the stage she so dearly loved. Heartache ensued either way.

He had zealously objected to Christine's choice of audition material, insisting that it was too risky. Over the course of their thirteen-hour boat ride, however, she had managed to convince him that the only people in the auditorium who would have heard her sing it in Paris were himself and the ladies Giry. Reluctantly, he had agreed to allow her to perform the all-too-familiar song, unable to dispute the fact that it was the only aria she had truly mastered for the stage. Erik certainly was not inclined to have her sing anything from the dreadful _Il Muto_, and he wasn't strong enough to force his already self-conscious protégée to perform an aria she had not yet practiced; he'd had enough trouble convincing her to audition in the first place, though he knew that for all her protests, the stage secretly beckoned to her. Performing music was in her blood.

Fortunately, using Chalumeau's famous aria seemed to be worth the danger. Christine was utterly relaxed as the familiar opening notes swelled from the piano, her voice clear and steady as she began to sing.

_Think of me, think of me fondly_

_When we've said goodbye_

_Remember me once in awhile_

_Please promise me you'll try_

_When you find that once again you long_

_To take your heart back and be free_

_If you ever find a moment_

_Spare a thought for me _

Erik narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin as her voice soared comfortably over the notes. Immediately she took his cue, shifting slightly off-pitch and weighing her voice down with far too much vibrato. His lips curled in a satisfied smile, but it faded at the look in her eyes. She hated this, Erik realized; hated marring the glory of her voice when they both knew her potential. Through his eyes he tried to convey his sympathy and understanding, and he was stunned when she looked away, her eyes filling with tears.

_We never said our love was evergreen_

_Or as unchanging as the sea_

_But if you can still remember_

_Stop and think of me_

_Think of all the things we've shared and seen_

_Don't think about the way things might have been_

One of the judges raised his hand in a signal to stop, nodding his approval. "Yes, yes, that will do, thank you, Signora Guerrier," he called. Sniffling and nodding in return, Christine dipped in another curtsy before striding hastily offstage.

She did not stop at Erik's row, but kept on walking toward the exit at the back of the auditorium. Increasingly concerned, he rose to his feet and followed her at a half-run. He found her standing in the lobby, propped up against a pillar, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. For a moment he simply watched her, trying to discern the source of her distress. It certainly wasn't anger at having to tone down her performance, he understood now.

And then it struck him.

Clenching his teeth to refrain from biting out a cruel remark, he took a clean handkerchief from his own pocket and pressed it into her palm.

_Little Lotte let her mind wander. Little Lotte thought, "Am I fonder of dolls, or of goblins, or shoes? Or of vicomtes or phantoms?"_ he recited mentally. In the back of his mind his conscience insisted that he could not blame her for missing the boy— he had been her husband, after all.

But it didn't help.

Oblivious as always, little Meg Giry came trotting through the doors a moment later, all bright smiles and compliments. "Oh, Christine, you were wonderful!" she cried, enveloping her friend in a warm embrace. "I overheard the judges talking, and I think they were very impress— what's wrong?" She studied her friend's tear-streaked face before following Christine's gaze over to Erik. Gasping, she backed up a few steps, the blood draining from her flushed cheeks. Wide-eyed and scared speechless, she looked from Christine to Erik and back again several times before Christine came to her rescue.

"I'm fine. I think I caught a cold on that horrible boat. My nose won't stop running!" Erik doubted that even Meg Giry, renowned for her credulity, would believe such a blatant lie. He raised his eyebrows as Christine plastered a smile on her face, squeezed her friend's shoulder, and handed the soggy handkerchief back to him. With perfect composure, she looked up at him and said coolly, "I would like to go back to the hotel for a nap. Be a dear, Erik, and hire us a hansom?"

He glared at her, unappreciative of being dismissed like a pestering child in the company of adults. But he saw the pleading just beneath her façade, and grumblingly agreed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the little Giry girl visibly relax as he swept out of the grand doors and down to the street.

There was something refreshing about Roman air. Dusty, hot, polluted, and horrifically overcrowded, it seemed the very last city that should have been appealing to him, but nevertheless he considered it one of his sanctuaries.

As he waited patiently on the curb for a group of giggly tourists to file out of a nearby hansom, his wandering gaze snagged on a cluster of houses on the horizon. His chest constricted with surprise, and slowly a light of recognition flared in his eyes. Smiling faintly, he dug in his pocket and produced a few crisp Italian bills which he had traded for francs upon entering Rome. Perhaps a long walk would help to clear his mind of the emotional audition and all of its implications.

"A young brunette woman will be on her way out in a few minutes," he told the carriage driver in flawless Italian, placing a bill in his hand. "She is wearing a pink dress and a white bonnet. You are to escort her personally to the Hotel Gabriella, and return immediately here to pick me up. I shall pay you ten times what the trip is worth if you keep her from harm's way."

"As you wish, Signore," the man agreed with a tip of his hat.

Erik gravitated instinctually toward the cluster of buildings, inhaling the scent of fresh bread and sun-baked tile. As the streets grew more residential, less and less tourists milled about, much to his relief. It was a lovely upper-middle class boulevard, just as he had remembered it. After strolling leisurely past several sprawling estates, he stopped suddenly, tilting his head as he studied one mansion in particular.

He could almost feel the wet mortar between his fingers as he smoothed the walls of that very house, creating painstakingly precise arches and pillars and high, rounded ceilings. Giovanni had designed a beautiful house indeed, and Erik had worked day and night for seven weeks to translate his master's work of art from paper to adobe and cement. He could still remember the pride that swelled in his chest as his kind old master ran his fingers caressingly over the smooth walls. A wrinkled smile from Giovanni was one of the most precious gifts Erik had received to date.

That had been twenty one years ago. Looking at the water stains along the roof, and the faded, worn steps leading to the front door, Erik suddenly felt very, very old. A shiver tingled up and down his spine, and he shook his head. So much of his life wasted. And now, when he finally had something—some_one_— worth living for, Fate stepped in, as usual, to try and rip it away.

Sighing heavily, Erik studied the product of his labor for another long moment before turning away. What he wouldn't have given to speak to Giovanni one last time. He was the one man he could bear to take advice from. Of course, there was always the Daroga… but he never explicitly _asked_ for advice; the meddlesome Persian just seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in _giving_ it. In his adolescent mind, at least, Giovanni had not been a mortal, like Nadir, but almost like a benevolent god— an omniscient father figure.

_Like I was to Christine. _

Guilt flooded him at the thought of her name. It suddenly occurred to him how selfish it had been of him to abandon her in her time of anguish. Cursing quietly at himself, he hurried back toward the opera house at a brisk jog.

**A/N: Sorry for the abrupt ending… hey, at least it's not a huge cliffhanger. That's a first in quite awhile, huh?**

**So in case you guys didn't get the oh-so-subtle hint, I LOVE Giovanni. –grins- I believe he and Nadir are Kay's biggest contributions to the fandom, yet both are horribly underused in fanfic!**

**A note to those of you who are fans of the musical "Rent": When Christine asked Erik what was to become of them in the future, I was THIS CLOSE –holds fingers a millimeter apart- to having him burst into song: "There is no fuutuurre, there is no paa-aa-ast; I live this moment as my last!" –winks- Okay, so I wouldn't ACTUALLY do that…**

**For those of you moaning and groaning about the fillers, don't worry— the plot will pick back up with a big, loud BANG in a few chapters. :D Hang in there.**

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	37. Peril

**A/N: In honor of my 700th review, a SUPER QUICK UPDATE (albeit a really short one)!**

**-glomps Pertie- EXACTLY! Right on the nose. I always have a "point" to each chapter… some insight I want the readers to learn about a character, an action to drive the plot forward, foreshadowing, SOMETHING— and usually at least one of my readers picks up on it. This time the award for close reading goes to Pertie! While fillers can be a royal pain, I do try to spice them up with an undercurrent.**

Christine had everything she'd ever wanted. She was onstage again, rehearsing for hours to perfect and tune the voice she had allowed to slip into disrepair. Her best friend worked right alongside her, gossiping, flirting shamelessly with the stagehands, and helping her learn Italian. When she returned home—that is, to her temporary residence—the love of her life waited with open arms and a hot bath ready for her. She had plenty to eat, a steady income, more friends each day, a whole new wardrobe, and a blooming career.

So why, why in God's name did she want to cry herself to sleep each night?

Three weeks passed with no change. Then four. Her voice was getting better, everyone agreed. The Maestro took heed of her peers' compliments, and pulled her aside to remark on her progress, promising her a small solo in the next production should she continue to improve. Immediately Christine began to sing more quietly and a bit off-tune, though her heart physically ached to ruin such beautiful music. That night she said very little to Erik, occupying herself with washing the dishes, straightening the kitchenette, and scrubbing the bathtub until it sparkled. She could feel his eyes singeing her back as she worked doggedly, her gaze fixated on the item she was currently cleaning.

"Something happened at the theater today," he said matter-of-factly, leaning against the wall just behind her. She jolted a little, wincing.

"Something happens at the theater every day," she replied without looking up at him. Even so, she knew he was frowning.

"You are distressed, Christine." His voice was heartbreakingly tender, but edged with authority. "Tell me what's troubling you."

_I wish I knew! _she wanted to say. Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she shrugged nonchalantly.

"It was a long day, Erik. That's all."

A long, painful silence stretched between them before she felt his hand come to rest lightly on her shoulder. "Are you angry with me?" he asked softly. The genuine fear in his voice was enough to unleash the tears she had been fighting so hard to suppress.

"Why would I be?" She sniffled miserably, meeting his gaze at last. His concerned green eyes flickered across her face before he lowered them to the floor. Another long silence.

"No reason, I suppose. You must be hungry," he said finally, rising swiftly to his feet and grabbing his cloak from the hook. "I'll go down to the pier. Does halibut and asparagus strike your fancy?"

Christine squeezed her eyes shut, picked up the damp sponge she had dropped at her knees, and began scrubbing again with a dismissive shrug. He had been doing this all the time lately—sympathetic and consoling one moment, but the very second she pried into _his_ emotions or odd behavior, he would change the subject or take off on some errand or another. What was he afraid of? Or rather, what was he trying to hide?

When the door clicked shut behind him, she threw her sponge angrily at the floor and stood, balling her hands into fists. Then and there, she determined that the moment he stepped back through the door, she would give him a piece of her mind, and get to the bottom of all this secrecy. Christine Daaé was no longer a cowering child, who blindly accepted the maddening mysteries of her Angel of Music.

Highly satisfied with her newfound resolve, she wiped her soapy hands on her skirt and marched over to the old, too-soft couch. She had been at work all day while Erik sat at home doing absolutely nothing; let him do the cleaning! She was not a lowly, apron-wearing housewife! Erik hadn't even _proposed_, even though she had given him ample opportunity. Technically, she was still the Vicomtess de Chagny, and she should have had ten servants waiting at her hand and foot, scraping and bowing and offering to bring her chocolates and lemonade!

But the title only made her dissolve in tears again, slumping over onto the hard, scratchy cushions. Exhausted, achy, hungry, thirsty, and burning hot, she wanted nothing more than to fall asleep in an ice bath after eating a full eight-course meal and downing gallons of chilled wine. And this horrible rat's nest atop her head! It only added to the already unbearable heat of the Roman summer; she mentally noted that when Erik came home, she would demand that he cut all of it off!

The list of things she wanted to tell Erik grew with every passing minute, until there were so many her head felt ready to explode. Dehydrated from crying and sweating profusely in the sweltering hotel room, she was only too happy to succumb to darkness when it pressed in on her weary mind.

Music was the first thing she noticed upon waking groggily. It was much cooler now; a gentle breeze stirred through the dimly-lit room. Her eyes flew open in shock when she realized she wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing, and she scrambled unceremoniously to cover herself with… sheets? Had Erik moved her to the bed, then? Turning instinctively to the source of the quiet music, her gaze settled on a dark, familiar silhouette on the other side of the fluttering curtains.

But to the contrary of her resolve just before drifting off, a surge of love flooded her heart as she realized how well he had taken care of her. She felt much better after a long rest, with the setting sun depleting some of the unbearable, muggy heat from the air. It appeared Erik also had the uncanny ability to read her mind; he had tied up her hair in a neat bun— a gesture much more rational than slicing the thick mane off. As she wrapped a thin cotton sheet around her torso and padded over toward the balcony, another painful lump grew in her throat; but this time, tears of shame and guilt pressed their way forward.

Or at least she _thought_ it was a surge of tears…

Seconds later she found herself on her hands and knees, retching violently onto the hardwood floor. Erik was at her side almost instantly, one strong arm wrapped around her for support while the other pushed flyaway curls out of the way of her mouth. He caught her when she toppled forward in a shuddering, teary mess, shifting her into a fetal position in his lap.

"I was afraid of this," he murmured as he rubbed Christine's back, shaking his head in self-disgust. "We should have found a doctor and had you vaccinated before we left France. Forgive me."

"What's wrong with me?" Christine whimpered, burying her face in his chest.

"It could be any number of things," he said gravely, climbing slowly to his feet so as not to jar her too much.

"Such as?" she probed, frightened by the sudden severity of his features.

Erik shook his head, laying her down on the bed. "Most likely something as simple and fleeting as the stomach flu. Not to worry, my dear. We must simply keep fluids in you. Once you are asleep, I will ask the mistress to watch over you while I search for an herbal vendor. I know just the tonic to relieve this wretched vomiting." He tried to smile reassuringly, but Christine did not miss the glint of terror in his eyes. As he stood to go and fetch a glass of water, she grasped for his hand.

"Am I going to die?" she asked brokenly, tears spilling from her wide brown eyes.

"No!" Erik snapped, wheeling about to face her with a frightening intensity that only doubled her suspicions. If her condition had so deeply shaken Erik, it was not something to be taken lightly. He tried to soften his tone, bending down to plant a kiss on her sweaty forehead. "No, _mon ange_, you will not. I won't allow it."

She nodded bravely, holding back her tears until the hotel mistress came up to watch over her while Erik went in search of one of his gypsy remedies. The old woman had a kind, wrinkled face, and though she spoke no French and Christine only understood a few phrases of Italian, there was an unspoken understanding between the two:

Christine would be dead by morning.

**A/N: -slowly, veerryy slowly, creeps away from you guys, hoping to avoid being seen- **

… **Um, in all fairness, I DID say there was gonna be a big bang, right?**

**Just for clarity: cholera was not "discovered" until 1883— meaning it was in existence, but there was not yet a name for it, let alone a remedy. There was the unspoken rule, however, that upon entering a new country, there was the chance of catching a foreign disease. In Italy, cholera was (and continues to be) a very common ailment for tourists and immigrants, even though it did not have a scientific name until 1883. The symptoms include dehydration and intense vomiting, among other things.**


	38. Revelation

**A/N: Because I love you guys too much to keep you in suspense with that mean of a cliffhanger, ANOTHER ridiculously quick update to set you at ease.**

**OH! OH! OH! And before I forget: some of you were inquiring as to where I got the last name "Guerrier" for Erik. My cousin and I both could have sworn on our graves that it was in Kay, but we were mistaken. For DAYS it bugged me, because I couldn't get the name Guerrier out of my head. Erik Guerrier. That was it! And then it hit me… I'm sure most of you are familiar with the amazingly talented authoress, Wandering Child (she wrote "Demons," perhaps one of the most popular phics on the site). As it turns out, she uses "Guerrier" as Erik's last name in her newest fic "The Last First Kiss" (which is AMAZING, btw). Some stories are just so realistic and ingrained in our heads that they become fact. So I must apologize, and give all due credit for Erik's last name to the fabulous Wandering Child. **

Erik sprinted breathlessly through the crowded streets, diving through hoards of tourists and shoppers as he raced back toward the Hotel Gabriella as fast as his legs would carry him. Dusk had settled over the Eternal City, casting the markets in elongated shadows and reddish orange hues. Fortunately, he had managed to find an herbal vendor within minutes of dashing through the open stands. Without even pausing to ask the price, he had thrown an absurdly high sum of money on the table, scooping up jars of honey, garlic, tulasi, mulathi, ginger, kantkari, vasaka, and hanspadi. The poor vendor had hardly had time to pack the items in a burlap sack before Erik ripped it from his hands and tore off into the crowds again.

_Not now… if there is a God, don't You _dare_ take her from me now!_

He raised his eyes fleetingly to the sky, painted in hues of royal purple, fuchsia, and splashes of orange. The sun was sinking in the west, just about to slip over the jagged horizon. For some strange reason he associated the setting sun with Christine's last flare of life, and pushed forward with inhuman speed, desperate to get back to her before her brilliant, beautiful light went out too. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he knew it was illogical and perfectly preposterous, but reason was drowned out by raging terror. He _could not _lose her again! This time, if he was correct in his diagnosis, she could not come back.

Since his earliest days of world travel, spent in a fetid cage, Erik had overheard whispered rumors of the diseases of foreign lands. The gypsies were nomads, constantly traveling, and bringing with them all sorts of plagues to the people they visited. From the age of seven, Erik had been exposed to all sorts of exotic, deadly diseases, passing through infected areas without so much as batting an eyelash. Still, he had not missed the hushed, terrified whispers speaking of foreign plagues wiping out entire villages. As they had never touched him, he had never had any reason to pay these rumors any heed…

And this was the price he would be forced to pay for childhood ignorance? Evidently Fate had never heard of cruel and unusual punishment.

But it mattered not. He would rescue Christine from this silent killer. A master of anatomy and herbal remedies, he would surely find a cure. Failure was not an option when Christine's life was at stake.

Pressing ruthlessly through the swell of homeward bound citizens and tourists alike, he finally came within sight of the Hotel Gabriella. Just the thought of being so close made him double his speed, despite the tearing pain just below his ribcage. He flew up the two flights of stairs to their room, his feet hardly touching the steps. Throwing the door open, he catapulted through the door, directly past the hotel mistress, stumbling to the floor at Christine's bedside.

She was horribly pale, her brow dotted with beads of sweat, and her eyes looked sunken and shadowed in her skull. Erik's eyes flew wide open as he clutched her hand, watching her chest for any sign of motion.

He counted three agonizingly slow seconds before her chest rose and fell gently in sleep.

Overwhelmed by emotion, he collapsed in sobs of relief, pressing his forehead to her hand. There was still time!

Pausing only to press a hasty kiss to Christine's knuckles, he exploded into action again. Having forgotten the hotel mistress' presence entirely, it came as quite a surprise when he turned around to look into Signora Giolla's stern brown eyes.

"Mary and Joseph, Signore Guerrier, where's the fire?" she clucked.

"Thank you for your time, Signora," Erik sighed exasperatedly, brushing past her to pick up his burlap sack from where he had dropped it at the door. "We will not be requiring your assistance any longer."

Much to his chagrin, the elderly woman didn't move. She sat watching him with her attentive, maternal brown eyes as he darted feverishly about the room, grabbing pots, filling them with water, setting firewood in the little black stove, and searching frantically for a match. When he pulled out a cabinet drawer with such force that he sent the drawer and all of its contents spilling across the tiled floor, she asked with maddening calm, "What are you looking for, signore?"

"Matches!" he bellowed, kicking the drawer across the room in frustration.

Leaping to her feet with a haste that defied her withered old body, the woman gave him a look so fierce that it tamed even _his_ temper. Just as quickly as the expression had darkened her face, however, it melted into doting affection as she turned her gaze down to Christine. Giolla smoothed her soft, careworn palm over Christine's forehead as she began to stir, and almost immediately Christine fell back asleep. Once again the old hotel mistress returned her fiery gaze to Erik.

"Do your wife a favor, signore," she hissed, "and cease your appalling temper tantrum. The poor child needs rest." Pausing only briefly to take a deep breath and smooth her skirts, she stepped right past him, down the stairs, and into her flat just beside the main lobby. Erik heard her rummaging through a cabinet of sorts, humming quietly to herself. _Humming!_ While his w… Christine suffered, on death's door, the old bat was taking her precious time smelling the roses! It was nearly enough to make him grab for the Punjab lasso, woman or not.

Fortunately, Giolla returned, box of matches in hand, before Erik had enough time to muster the energy and resolve to dispose of her. He snatched them from her hand with a sneer, rushing over to the fireplace to begin the brew. With all the ingredients assembled, it only took a few minutes to measure out the appropriate amounts and stir them together in a small black pot.

It had never occurred to him how very long and tedious it was to wait for water to boil.

Stopped from pacing only by the bothersome presence of the hovering old mistress, he resumed his spot at Christine's side, wiping her brow with a damp rag Giolla had been using.

He was caught entirely off-guard again when the elderly woman sat down on the couch and began to make small talk with him.

"So whereabouts in France are you from?"

"None of your business," he barked.

"Paris, is it?" she said with a triumphant gleam in her brown eyes. "Only Parisians are so secretive and hot-tempered."

Erik sighed, resting his throbbing forehead on the mattress beside Christine's arm. The woman's age alone kept him from throttling her; she was ancient and senile, he told himself repeatedly. Eventually he decided to ignore her completely, trying to focus his undivided attention on Christine. Giolla chattered on gaily about the heat wave blowing up from Africa, noting the importance of keeping oneself hydrated with a meaningful glance at Erik. When she continued to be ignored, she pressed on to a new subject, undeterred.

"Do you have children, Signore Guerrier?"

Sighing again, Erik lifted his head and turned to look at her with a positively vicious glare. "No, I do not." He tried to put as much finality in the words as humanly possible, but the old woman didn't seem to take the hint.

"I have thirteen," Giolla said, lifting her chin proudly. "Seven girls and six boys, every one of them grown now. I'm thirty-two times a grandmother as well. My youngest, Sienna, just had her fourth."

Erik tried to ignore her, truly he did. Unfortunately, his temper got the better of him. "And are all of them as bombastic as their grandmother?"

To his increased frustration, the old woman laughed. "Every last one!" she hooted.

"Fantastic," he grumbled, casting a longing glance over at the pot, which had only just begun to steam. He hardly heard her when she spoke again.

"So this will be your first then? How wonderful!"

"First _what_?" he snapped.

"Chicken!" Giolla exclaimed sarcastically, throwing her hands in the air with a roll of her ancient eyes. "Good Lord, man, what have we been discussing for the past five minutes?"

Erik wanted to retort that they technically hadn't been _discussing_ anything; it had rather been a long-winded monologue. But Giolla continued before he had the chance.

"Your wife, dear. How long has she been expecting? I tried to ask her myself, but my French is rather rusty after all these yea—"

His heart froze in his chest, skipping what felt like four beats before he composed himself enough to fly to his feet, turning to her with wild eyes. "What did you say?" he roared.

Giolla frowned, puckering her lips in disapproval. "Touchy, touchy, signore! I was only curious…"

But he was beyond dismissing her as a poor, senile old lady. To… to say such a thing was… was vulgar! Profanity! Sacrilege to every human being! The very thought that he could create another half-human monster like himself was… was…

Propelled beyond reason, beyond sanity, he rushed in on the old woman like a baited bull. She had enough time to rise to her feet before he pressed her up against the wall, bringing his snarling face within a centimeter of hers.

"Say it again, old woman. I dare you," he sneered, his voice a deadly hiss.

For a moment fear shone in Giolla's eyes as she looked up at him, but suddenly it dissolved into the most unforgivable of emotions: pity.

"Oh my," she exhaled tremblingly, pressing one hand to her heart. "Poor dear… you didn't… didn't know yet, did you?"

"There is nothing to know," Erik insisted, horrified when his voice wavered slightly over the last word. "She is ill, that's all. I'm making her a tonic to ease the symptoms."

Giolla smiled faintly, giving a terse nod. "Ah, the wonders of modern medicine. Are you a doctor, then, Signore Guerrier?"

"Don't—change—the—subject!" he cried, shoving her shoulders roughly against the wall. The fear returned to her eyes almost immediately, and he basked childishly in the momentary rush of power. "Why are you telling such horrific _lies_, madame? Do Catholics not believe that liars go to HELL?"

"We do, signore," she said with as brave an expression as she could muster. "But I told no lie."

"You are telling me," Erik panted, bringing his face even closer to hers, "that the woman lying on that bed behind me… is…" He could not even bring himself to echo such blasphemy.

"With child," Giolla finished unflinchingly. "_Sì, signore_. As I am a Catholic, I swear it before the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost."

"And are _you_ a doctor, Signora Giolla?" he spat. "How can you _possibly_ profess to such a ridiculous claim?"

She smiled then, a knowing smile which caused shivers to crawl up his spine like a surge of tiny, invisible spiders. "I have never been wrong, signore, in my seventy-one years on God's earth." Tilting her head, she asked with unbearable gentleness, "And why is it that I must be wrong? Has your wife been infertile in the past?"

Unknowingly, she stung him hard. No… infertile Christine was most certainly not. He still remembered the brokenness in her eyes as she first confessed to him the pain of losing her first child. It had been an accident, he was positive; despite the vitriolic rumors of the masses, Christine would have taken her own life to spare that of her unborn child.

Did she want children, then?

Erik shut off the thought before it could go any farther. If she had once entertained the thought of motherhood, surely she had abandoned it the moment she declared her love for him. The Vicomte might have given her whole, beautiful children, but…

Suddenly it was as if someone had pulled the release valve on his strength. Deflated, heartbroken, and overwhelmed, he pulled away from the old woman and moved slowly toward Christine.

Sitting at her bedside once again, he bowed his head over her pale hand and whispered brokenly to Giolla, "Leave us."

For once, the old hotel mistress did as she was told. Slowly, but with all the dignity and reserve with which she entered, Giolla stepped out of the room and closed the door.

Only when they were alone did he allow his tears to fall.

**A/N: I mean, come on, people! You really think I'd kill Christine off with all these unanswered questions and loose ends? I'm not THAT evil! –shifty eyes-**

**So how many plot twists do you think I can throw at you guys in a week? This is the… what, third? Heehee. I enjoy keeping you on your toes. Believe it or not, this is only half of the promised "big bang." The other half is still to come!**

**In case you guys hadn't figured this out by now, I LAHVE angst. Poor Erik. I should really leave him alone. –bites lip and grins- Giving him a baby and all. God, I'm so MEAN! -tries to be sympathetic, but is a wee bit giddy for that- SQUEE! **


	39. Middleman

**A/N: So would you believe me if I said it took so long to update because I wanted to give you guys a breather before the next plot twist?**

**For those who answered yes, skip over the rest and read on!**

**For those who answered no, you're partially correct. ;) I've been sick (damned bronchitis won't go awaaayyy! –pouts-) and I had to prepare for Mock Congress, which was last Friday, PLUS I wasn't in very much of a "writing mood," and I wanted this chapter to be of the best quality possible. **

Of all the nights Nadir might have chosen for such a life-altering incident to transpire, this one would have been one of the last on his list. Years later, upon reflecting on that evening, he could do nothing but shake his head and submit that Allah worked in strange and mysterious ways incomprehensible to mere mortals.

Business had been booming over the past few weeks; it was the peak of tourist season, and every room in his small hotel on the outskirts of Montmartre had been full each night for two months. Five minutes' walk to the south would bring his customers to the extremely popular Bohemian district, where art, opium dens, music, brothels, open bars, and endless drunken parties raged at all hours. Two kilometers further south would deposit his customers in the _Opera Populaire_'s lap. And six kilometers due southwest was Nadir's quiet, immaculate brick home, which he much preferred to the rowdy chaos these infidels seemed to find entertaining.

After three years in the hotel management business, the Persian had begun to think that perhaps Erik had been wise in burying himself five stories beneath the garish opulence that was Paris. Alas, he needed an income, and his ingrained hospitality proved to be an excellent foothold in this particular field. As was his custom, he treated all of his guests as his closest friends, going above and beyond the call of a hotel manager. The accommodations were not the finest in Paris, nor the worst, but they were neat and well-maintained. Word of the Hotel Khan's excellent service spread like wildfire throughout the tourist population, and within a year of opening Nadir was a very popular and wealthy man.

He had already turned away five pleading couples that night when he heard the front door swing open and a man's harsh, barking cough in the hall downstairs.

Sighing, he set down his pen and rested his chin in one palm, steeling himself against the impending pleas, bribes, and threats that would undoubtedly accompany this new customer. Much as he would have liked to accommodate every last tourist in Paris, he only had sixteen rooms available, all of which were occupied at the moment.

But no amount of mental steeling could have prepared Nadir for the sight of the Vicomte de Chagny, propped up on the arm of what appeared to be a common street whore. Pale and unkempt, his face littered with stubble, his blue eyes sunken and bloodshot, the prince of the Parisian aristocracy looked an utter mess, but he was undeniably the same man who had recently graced the cover of every newspaper within 100 kilometers of the capital.

Nadir's lips worked soundlessly, but no more than a harsh exhalation passed through his lips. He did, however, manage to remember his manners and bow deeply as the Vicomte entered the lobby.

"_Bonjour, Monsieur Khan_," the woman panted in an atrocious attempt at a French accent. She spoke high in her mouth, and released vowels through her nose— a Brit if he had ever heard one. Subconsciously the Persian stiffened; hadn't the papers said that the Vicomte had been reported dead in a shipwreck just outside of Brighton? His emerald eyes narrowed and darted back and forth between the anomalous couple as he tried to decipher their relationship.

When Nadir finally managed to find his voice, he spoke as serenely as possible. "I do speak English, mademoiselle, if it would be easier for you."

"_Madame_," the Vicomte corrected in a pause between husky coughing spells. "This is my wife, Emily."

Nadir's stomach twisted itself into an impossibly complicated, tight knot. The blood drained from his cheeks, and his throat was suddenly dry as the Persian sands. It was fortunate that he was already sitting, for he was sure his knees would have buckled at that particular revelation.

Now equally pale as the sickly Vicomte, the Persian fumbled with his glasses, plucking them from the bridge of his nose with shaky hands and polishing them on the hem of his shirt; _anything_ to divert his gaze from this shocking intrusion. He nodded absently as the woman babbled on in English, retelling the same old story: every hotel in a 20 kilometer radius was booked, and her husband was ill, and couldn't he please find them a room? A large closet? Anything?

A tremulous sigh worked its way past Nadir's lips as he finally looked back up at the pair. Erik would positively _murder_ him if he found out— and he _would_ find out, eventually— that he had found the Vicomte wandering about Paris, unarmed, ill, and unaccompanied save the little English woman on his arm. How long would it take for a member of the aristocracy, out for a stroll in the park with their toy poodle, to come across a very familiar-looking, albeit unkempt, member of their beloved circle, asleep on a park bench, covered in a blanket of newspapers?

It took a great deal of physical force to restrain his throat muscles from releasing a long, agonized groan. His watery, weary green eyes flitted over the couple for a few more seconds before he pushed his chair back from the desk and climbed heavily to his feet.

The woman—Emily— raised her hands in a pleading gesture as he walked past her, grabbing his hat and coat from a hook by the door.

"Please, sir, don' turn us away! I'll do anything…" She grabbed hold of his sleeve, and Nadir looked up into two very desperate, beseeching eyes. His heart wrenched with pity; he had no doubt she was true to her word. Now his conscience gave him no option. He could not let this young couple go out in the bitter cold while the boy was sick and the girl was ready to sell herself to the first bidder.

Besides, Erik would have a fit either way the Persian chose to go about it. If Nadir let them go, he might as well drive the boy personally to the de Chagny estate and point him to his brother's doorstep. If he kept them close, tending to their every need like the good host he had been trained to be, he would be fraternizing with the enemy.

Shaking his head slightly to rid himself of the vivid image of Erik marching toward him, Punjab in hand, he touched the girl's shoulder gently.

"There is no room here, my young friend," he said, his voice punctuated with remorse. The girl's face fell, frustrated tears flooding her eyes. Sighing again, the Persian looked over at the ailing Vicomte and added steadily, "but I am not so malevolent as to turn away a sick man. My horse is stabled downstairs. Have you any money for a hansom?"

Emily looked up at him in surprise, nodding vehemently.

"I live on Rue Labrouste. Apartment 6B, across from the tailor. It isn't anything fancy, but I have a couch in the living room and a divan in the study."

The Persian wasn't sure how to feel when the Vicomte moved forward, earnest gratitude shining in his blue eyes. The boy took Nadir's hand in both of his own, squeezing it tightly. "I don't know how to thank you, monsieur."

"Think nothing of it," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I do not believe in chance. Allah does everything for a reason. I do not make a regular habit of taking customers into my home, but under the circumstances…" He cleared his throat and nodded toward the door. "Come. You'll be able to hire a taxi just a few blocks down."

Nadir watched the couple out of his peripheral vision as he locked up the office and tucked the key securely in the silken folds of his tunic. The Vicomte leaned much of his weight on his escort, which was a considerable burden despite his emaciated frame. His skin was almost translucent, his eyes dull; the boy had obviously been malnourished these past few weeks. Of course, his illness only contributed further to his deathly visage. There was a harsh bite to his cough that spoke of a lung infection… perhaps even consumption. The Persian had to wonder how this pitiful skeleton of a boy, apparently depraved of his memory, tottering on death's doorstep, could frighten the notorious Phantom of the Opera into hiding.

But of course, he knew there was much more to it than that. This boy, however incapacitated, was the incarnation of everything Erik feared and loathed in the world. He was weakened, but alive, despite all odds. And Erik was bound and determined to either avoid this frail shadow of the man who was once his enemy, or eliminate him.

Nadir could only pray to Allah that Erik would never discover his aid to the poor boy. He did not see an arrogant, spoiled, relentless aristocrat, bound and determined to wrench his trophy wife from the arms of the monster who loved her; he saw a humble young man, hardly more than a child, shivering and coughing in the cold, clad in inadequate clothing, with a stomach that grumbled from days without nourishment. He could not turn his back on him, especially now that the boy had come to him seeking shelter.

The Persian had a most wearisome tendency of finding the best in people. In times like this he envied Erik his indiscriminating hatred toward the world; it must have made life so much easier.

Knowing that the struggling couple would take awhile to get down the stairs, he purposely galloped down them two at a time. At the bottom of the stairs was a small door, hardly noticeable except for those who knew of its existence. He rapped on it twice, and it opened swiftly to reveal the silhouette of his servant, Darius.

"It's him," he panted in his native tongue, just in case the couple behind him managed to move more quickly than he had anticipated.

"Monsieur Erik?" Darius echoed, one eyebrow arched in barely-veiled disgust.

"No, no." Nadir shook his head, bracing one arm on the door frame. "The Vicomte." At his companion's questioning stare, he elaborated, "de Chagny. Christine Daaé's husband."

"I thought he was dead?"

"So did we all. Evidently Allah was not in agreement."

Darius nodded, pulling his robe tighter around himself against the draft from the stairwell. "What will you do?"

Nadir threw a glance over his shoulder as the Vicomte launched into another coughing spell. "He is very ill. I am taking him and his female companion to my home. You will need to keep watch, old friend. If any more come in, you must turn them away. I will be back by morning to see our guests off."

"As you wish, Daroga." There was uncertainty in Darius's eyes, but he would never openly disagree with a superior. Instead he bowed reverently and waited until Nadir had turned away before shutting the door again.

Eventually he lost track of how many times he sighed throughout the long ride from the hotel to his home in Vaugirard. It was late, almost midnight, by the time he pulled his panting horse to a halt at the boarding stable five blocks north of Rue Labrouste. Tedious as it was to make the trip every morning and evening when he was tired, he did not have the heart to confine his dainty Arabian mare, Mihrbânû, to the small garden patch behind his apartment. She was as fussy and particular about her lodging and meals as the kharnum herself, thanks to Nadir. While he did not consider himself an animal person, he had always harbored a reverence for the majestic horses of Arabia.

And this one in particular had an uncanny attentiveness to his emotions that made him quite uneasy. She seemed to be watching him skeptically with those large, intelligent brown eyes as he untacked her hastily, accidentally pinching her side as he unbuckled the girth.

"Sorry," he mumbled, giving her neck a brief pat. When she continued to watch him intently, he sighed and set the saddle down, filled with the ridiculous urge to explain himself. "I've found myself in quite a predicament, you see. It's really no excuse to treat you so roughly, but I'm in a bit of a state of shock." He sighed for the umpteenth time that evening, passing a hand wearily over his eyes. "Allah, he's going to _kill_ me."

Mihrbânû stood idle for a moment, considering him, before offering a sigh of her own and lowering her nose to sniff at the floor for a late-night snack.

"I knew you would understand," Nadir said with a small smile, picking up his saddle from where he'd deposited it at the horse's side. He made sure to add a special dash of molasses to her grain before stashing the tack in its designated space and rushing off into the dark streets. Fortunately, his little mare had made excellent time— if he hurried, there would be enough time to straighten the study and start a pot of tea before his guests arrived.

Falling back on his instincts as host, the Persian nearly forgot for whom he was catering. The moment he entered the simple apartment he went to work, picking up items as he crossed the lobby, straightening the ornate Persian rug with the toe of his boot, and making a mental list of the chores he needed to finish in five minutes' time. After heaping blankets on both the divan and the couch, he scurried across the house and put a pot of water in his potbelly stove, adding a few extra pieces of wood to keep it burning while he entertained his guests. He even managed to slice two onions and a few strips of chicken breast before a tentative knock came at his front door.

Somehow, he managed to school his expression into a smile as he opened the door and caught sight of the Vicomte. The realization of the danger he was putting them both in came back to Nadir in a flood, but he swallowed his fear and ushered the boy and his escort in with a warm welcome. He would have been a fool to not fear Erik's wrath, but neither would he let his morals be drowned out by other men's quarrels… even his closest friend's.

"Please, monsieurs, have a seat. Make yourselves at home. Madame, your room will be in the study, just down the hall, the last door on the left. Monsieur, if you don't mind, you shall sleep on the couch in the living room. There is a washroom through this door here, and to your right is the kitchen area. Feel free to eat or drink anything you may find. Supper will be ready in about thirty minutes. I'm terribly sorry I couldn't get it started sooner… would you like some tea while you wait?"

He didn't wait for an answer before bustling into the kitchen and returning a few seconds later with a tray of teacups and saucers, scones, sugar, lemon, cream, and jam. His guests spoke very little, but accepted his hospitality with grateful, shy smiles and nods. The Vicomte continued to cough violently every few seconds, and the instant Nadir had set the tea tray on the coffee table he was moving again, hurrying off to the kitchen to dig through his herbal cabinet for something to help.

Irony permeated the situation as his fingers fell upon the vial of morphine Erik had borrowed from on several occasions. Did he dare give the same drug to Erik's mortal enemy?

Biting his lip, Nadir decided he did. There was very little he could do for a lung infection, but morphine would most certainly help to dull the boy's wired nerves and perhaps allow him a few hours of sleep. He hesitated only for a moment before filling a syringe with the potent liquid and returning to the living room.

He found the couple subdued as ever, sipping timidly at their tea and occasionally nibbling on a biscuit. Pain and fatigue still twisted the Vicomte's features, however, so he moved over to the boy with a gentle smile.

"This will help you relax, monsieur," he said quietly, holding up the syringe. The boy looked at him with dull, exhausted eyes, and asked what it was. Nadir hesitated before lying, "An herbal remedy from my homeland. A sedative of sorts."

The Vicomte eyed the syringe for a long moment before exchanging glances with Emily and nodding. "I would be most obliged, monsieur. I have not been sleeping well these past few nights."

Nadir nodded his understanding, gesturing for the boy to make a fist. When a vein was visible in the curve of his arm, he gently inserted the tip of the needle and injected a full dose of the powerful drug.

Within a minute the boy's head began to bob, and soon after he was sound asleep on the couch. Emily moved forward as he went limp, covering him with one of the blankets Nadir had draped over the arm of the sofa.

"Thank you," she whispered, stroking the boy's cheek.

"He should sleep through the night." Nadir touched her shoulder, nodding his head at the hallway. "You should sleep as well, Madame. I will leave the stew on, and if you wake in the middle of the night, take as much as you'd like."

"You're very kind."

Emily rose, and he escorted her to the hallway, giving a little bow as she opened the study door. "If you need anything else, Madame, my room is the next door down. Please don't hesitate to ask for anything."

"I'm jus' grateful for wha' you've given us already, sir." She curtsied and smiled faintly before closing the door behind her.

For the longest time, Nadir simply stood there, his head bowed, shoulders slumped, as if waiting for a divine voice to break through the silent night and either praise or rebuke him. He believed he was doing the right thing… had not Allah commanded that his followers take care of the less fortunate? But a nagging little pain in his heart, no more than a pinprick, insisted that his good deed in helping this couple was cancelled out by the peril he might be placing another in. He would never forgive himself if by helping the Vicomte and Emily he was actually stabbing Erik and Christine in the back.

Finally he uttered a deep sigh and straightened his posture, giving a small shake of his head. He was blowing things out of proportion. Giving the Vicomte and his escort a warm place to stay and some food in their bellies was not going to hurt Erik in the slightest. Even if the boy did regain his memory— _which would be no fault of mine,_ Nadir reasoned— he would have no idea where Christine was.

Satisfied for the moment that he was committing no unforgivable sin, Nadir said a lengthy prayer, washed his face and hands, and retired to bed.

It was nearly two hours later when he was awoken by the creak of a loose floorboard in the hallway just outside of his door. At first he dismissed the noise and turned over, burying his face in the warm pillow. He _had_ told Emily, after all, to help herself to food if she was hungry. He had just started to drift off again when he heard the front door open and close with a soft click.

Suddenly wide awake, he bolted upright in bed, listening hard. He held his breath, waiting for her to come back inside. Perhaps she had just stepped out for a cigarette. He was overreacting. Nothing was out of place. Nothing.

His lungs started to burn for oxygen. Panic trickled through his nervous system, and suddenly he exploded into action, slipping his bare feet into his boots and grabbing a black cloak from his closet. Barely breathing from excitement and dread, he slipped out into the hallway, and sure enough, found the study door ajar. He did not need to look inside to know that Emily was gone. His head swam as he ran for the door, pausing only to look in on the Vicomte— still sound asleep— before stepping out into the cool night.

Emily was already a block to the east by the time he got to the sidewalk. Years as the chief of police in Persia had taught him how to track soundlessly; years of watching Erik had taught him to disappear into the shadows without a trace. He followed her to the heart of the district, two blocks to the north, down a busy street crowded with drunkards and prostitutes, and into a side alley packed with all sorts of riffraff. His eyes darted nervously from one dark figure to the next, and he was sure to keep one hand in his pocket, as if holding a pistol, to ward off any trouble. He had never ventured into this side of the neighborhood after dark; it was a haven for drug dealers, smugglers, hit men, gamblers, and the rest of Paris' scum.

Fortunately, Emily seemed to be simply passing through the area, though he was disconcerted by the fearlessness and ease with which she traveled through such dangerous territory. At last they seemed to reach their destination: an unmarked, dimly lit street, where a few scantily clad women stood on the curbs, shivering in the cold and waiting. Nadir hung back in the shadows of an abandoned factory, watching. His eyes widened as Emily took up a place on the curb as well, dropping her cloak to expose a tight, revealing black dress.

_I knew it! _Nadir thought triumphantly. He had pegged Emily as a prostitute the moment he had laid eyes on her, only to abandon the idea at the title the Vicomte had given her. After spending a few hours with her, she had seemed perfectly docile and polite, but now the evidence was overwhelming in opposition to her. As if the situation had not been complicated enough in the first place, now he knew the woman who was escorting the Vicomte to be a prostitute. Did she know who she was "married" to, then? Perhaps she knew everything, and had tricked the poor boy into marrying her to get his money. But then, why was she still selling herself for money? It didn't make any sense.

A growing sense of dread pooled in Nadir's stomach as he stood idle, waiting for something to happen. The other women on the street seemed not to take any notice of the newcomer; Emily blended in well with their crowd.

Finally, something _did_ happen. Down the street, an elegant buggy turned the corner, drawn by a team of pureblood Thoroughbred horses. Nadir's eyes narrowed; what was such a high-class carriage doing in this part of town?

The buggy pulled to a stop in the center of the street, and suddenly his questions were answered. Five extremely drunk, crude men, all clad in expensive suits and top hats, stumbled out of the carriage and surveyed the women on the curbs.

"Whaddya think, fellas?" a portly, chestnut-haired man bellowed. "Two apiece, or three?"

"Oh, don't be a bloody hog, Pierre," the boy next to him said irritably, elbowing him in his wide gut. "It'll be one girl each, like always."

"Don't be such a fucking prick, Wes! We can have as many as we want, as long as we have the money, unlike _someone_ who just lost all his money at poker…" A third crooned, earning him a punch in the mouth from the boy called Wes.

"All of you can go to hell," one of the remaining men snapped, staggering forward with a half-empty vodka bottle in hand. "Christ, just pick a girl already!" And with that, he stumbled directly over to the closest girl— Emily. "You! How much for an hour?"

"Seventy-five," Emily said unflinchingly.

The man reeled back, his eyes widening cartoonishly, then fell to his knees laughing. "Look at that, boys! A Brit!" A series of whoops and hollers followed as the young man pulled a wallet from his pocket and flashed several hundred-franc notes before stashing it back in his pocket again. "My lady," he said in a mock British accent, bowing low to the ground and nearly falling on his face, "It would be my _pleasure_."

Another round of drunken hoots followed as Wes ran up and kicked the man's behind, successfully toppling him over.

"You're full of shit, de Chagny!" he laughed raucously, running away to hide behind the petite blonde girl he had chosen.

The blood froze in Nadir's veins. He hardly heard the rest of the playful, crude exchange between the men as they selected prostitutes and filed back into the carriage. His eyes were glued to Emily and her crass customer…

The Persian cursed himself repeatedly for not having recognized Comte Philippe de Chagny in the first place. His heart beat like a hammer against his ribcage, and suddenly he had the most powerful urge to retch.

He was helpless. Allah alone controlled the outcome of the night. Just one slip of Emily's naïve tongue could lead the Comte de Chagny directly to his brother. Nadir would be locked in jail, undoubtedly, for hiding Paris' most wanted man (even if he lied and said he had no idea who the "sickly man" was, Nadir's skin color would earn him prison time), but that would be nothing compared to the vengeance Erik would wreak upon him once he found out. He could only pray with all of his might that Emily would be too occupied with entertaining Philippe that she would not take note of the portraits of the youngest de Chagny boy hung on the estate's walls. Everything hindered on her attentiveness.

_If Erik ever finds out about this…_

But there was no "if," his conscience screamed. Erik had to be informed. He had written him with vivid instructions that if anything were to go wrong, he was to be notified. Nadir's stomach felt as if it were made of lead as he watched the buggy disappear around the corner, and slowly turned back toward home.

It was the longest walk of his life.

By the time he reached home, his throat was sore from the effort of suppressing a wave of guilty tears. His hand shook uncontrollably as he sank down into his chair in the study where Emily should have been sleeping. Closing his eyes briefly to collect himself, he dipped his pen in the ink well and began to write.

_Erik,_

_We have a problem…_

**A/N: -smiles sweetly and clears throat- Ahem. "BANG!"**


	40. Proposal

**A/N: This is a ridiculously long chapter, people. Lol. Lots of stuff is about to happen, so buckle your seatbelts!**

**As you've probably already noticed, this is a double update to make up for the long lapse. Enjoy! **

"Open, please. So, let me tell the story back to you, and please, correct me if I've gone wrong somewhere. You fainted on the couch last night, drenched in sweat, vomiting, with a searing headache, positive you would never wake again… and then _he-"_

"Erik," Christine corrected, earning a reprimanding pinch on the arm as Meg smeared the lipstick she was currently attempting to daub on Christine's lips.

"Hold _still_! All right, so then _Erik_ force-fed you some pagan, hocus-pocus _'remedy'_ and you woke up this morning fresh as a daisy?"

Shrugging, Christine turned to look over her shoulder at her reflection in the mirror, fiddling with a stray, frizzy curl. Although she loved her best friend dearly, Meg had the utterly exasperating habit of twisting Christine's words to make her sound like a madwoman.

_Christine, do you believe… do you believe the spirit of your father is coaching you?_

Christine answered in greater depth once her lips were no longer being pinched and rouged by Meg's fussy fingers. "He lived in a gypsy caravan for many years. Your mother rescued him from it, remember?" Fortunately, that statement effectively shut the Giry girl's mouth. At Meg's hesitant nod, she continued, "He learned a great deal from those people. Whatever was ailing me last night, he found a cure for it. Quite honestly, I don't care whether it was orthodox or not— I'm just glad to be out of that hellish state."

Frowning, Meg reached out and took her best friend's hand. "Forgive me. I don't mean to criticize… I just…" She trailed off, and Christine touched her chin, offering peace with a gentle smile.

"I understand," she replied warmly. "He has not exactly gone out of his way to be courteous to you." With a little laugh, she lowered her gaze to her lap and shrugged helplessly. "He will not apologize for it, either. But he is a good man, Meg, despite any evidence that might suggest otherwise."

A brief silence ensued before Meg nodded submissively, picking up a small, powder-filled disk and a pouf. "You are a far more forgiving person than I could ever hope to be. Now, for God's sake, stop _fidgeting_, or you'll go onstage with only half your face done!"

Ignoring the unintended pun, Christine smiled faintly and ceased to primp long enough for Meg to brush several more layers of makeup onto her face. She listened with half an ear, murmuring appropriately as her best friend chattered on about her newest love interest— a redheaded, "dreamy eyed" scene shifter by the name of Rupert Aldridge. The rest of her attention was focused on the performance that was to begin in a matter of minutes. Though she was no longer the lead soprano, her stomach still fluttered with invisible butterflies. This was only her third performance in Rome, but an opera house was an opera house, she supposed; the same stage, spotlights, enthusiastic crowds, bossy divas, and drunken stagehands. And, as always, Erik would be watching her intently from Box Five, which, to his endless annoyance, he actually had to _pay_ to occupy for once.

"… so you absolutely must swear not to tell a soul, Christine!"

"I swear," Christine agreed absently— not that she could have recounted anything anyway, as she had hardly heard a word Meg had said in the past five minutes. Smoothing her long, delicate white skirt, she rose to her feet and extended her hand to help her friend up. "Come, we need to start warming up. The others have probably all gathered in the wings by now."

Hand-in-hand, the girls wove through the clusters of people in the hallway connecting the dressing rooms and ballet dormitories. Despite Christine's prediction, several stragglers were still pulling on their pointe shoes or applying a last dab of powder to their elegant cheeks; she and Meg certainly weren't among the last to head toward the stage.

"Five minutes, ladies!" came the ballet mistress's stern voice from down the hall. "Genevieve, Francesca, let's move! Hustle, hustle, girls, the curtain will be rising in… four minutes and fifty three seconds! If any of you lurch out of the wings so much as a second late, you may pack your bags, because I will henceforth shudder at the sight of your unworthy faces!"

Meg leaned forward to whisper peevishly in Christine's ear. "Maman wasn't even that bad!"

Christine made a face and shook her head. They were nearly to the wings when a gloved hand suddenly snaked out of the shadows and latched around her arm. She gasped and stopped in her tracks, causing a line of ballerinas behind her to crash into one another. Once her heart started beating again, she turned and apologized, jerked her head at Meg to continue on without her, and ducked into the shadows.

"You nearly scared me to death!" she hissed as Erik pulled her back behind a large set piece, taking her snugly in his arms.

"I could hardly have made myself known with that lot surrounding you," he replied disgustedly. "Especially Mademoiselle Giry. She has the most unpleasant habit of announcing my presence in a series of shrieks."

Christine could not help but giggle, burying her face in his chest to smother the sound. A contented hum, somewhere between a purr and a whimper, rose in her throat as one of his large hands moved to cradle her neck. She might have stayed there all night had the ballet mistress's piercing voice not jarred her back to reality.

"Three minutes!"

Sighing, Christine rose on her tiptoes to kiss Erik tenderly on the lips. "I have to go," she whispered. His fingers tightened on her shoulder as she turned to leave.

"You're absolutely sure you're up to this? After last night…"

"Never better," she assured him with another peck on the lips.

Erik narrowed his eyes, raising his chin challengingly. His broad hands lowered to her back and pulled her even closer as she made another attempt to leave him. "If you expect me to believe you, you're going to have to do better than that."

Grinning, Christine gripped his neck roughly and pulled his mouth down to meet hers in a powerful, passionate kiss. When all her breath had been stolen, her lungs burning from a lack of oxygen, she tore away from his hungry mouth, raising her eyebrows with a knowing smirk.

After another few seconds of staring at her, purposely delaying his decision, he shrugged, leaned toward her, and murmured, "Let's try it again; that one was borderline…"

"Oh, you!" she laughed, batting him playfully on the shoulder. With a deliberately chaste kiss on the cheek, she wriggled from his strong grasp and trotted off to join Meg in the wings just as the orchestra struck up the first lively chords.

------------------------------------------------

**((A/N: I cannot ****believe**** I am doing this. Since I first started writing, I have been taught that switching between POVs mid-chapter is one of the ultimate sins of fanfic writing. Alas, it has to be done. Transition to Erik Mode, if you please!))**

Christine Daaé was born to perform. As a chorus girl at the Opéra Populaire, she had proved herself time and again as not only a devoted student, but a natural star. Rising through the ranks, she had secured and maintained a position in the _corps de ballet_ as row leader, and finally a soloist in _Hannibal_, before being promoted to lead soprano after that fortunate "accident" with the set…

Erik smirked at the memory as he watched his beloved cross the stage with two other women, clad in flowing white gowns. _Il Matrimonio Segreto _was not his favorite opera, but neither was it unbearable. The audience members seemed to be enjoying the abundant comedy and lighthearted music, but Erik was restless. The role of Carolina was too prominent for his comfort, but fortunately Christine was overshadowed by the flaxen beauty, Bianca da Gama, in the role of Elisetta. He had acquiesced to the casting only after Christine had assured him several times over that she would not draw any more attention to herself than was absolutely necessary.

Draining a third shot of whiskey without taking his eyes from the stage, he now mused grumpily over the poor decision to allow her to accept the role. Christine might as well have promised him not to be beautiful. She could not help her natural inclination to perform, and he could not criticize her for it. Unfortunately, he could not simply whisk her away after the curtain closed, either; the critics and reporters would pay far too much attention to the disappearance of such a prominent actress directly following a successful performance. It was safer to allow her to mingle with the opera patrons than to have the papers trying to pry into the personal life of a mysteriously reclusive opera singer; one person could be mistaken or dismiss the likeness as a coincidence, but an official investigation would be disastrous.

No… tonight he would have to smother his instincts to spirit Christine away from the public as he had always done in the past. Ironically, the best place to hide was directly in the limelight.

He raised a finger in a silent gesture for the box attendant to procure another whiskey for him. Less than a minute later, a fresh shot glass was in his hand, and he downed the contents unflinchingly. Normally he was not one to drink to excess, but tonight… tonight was different. Tonight he needed to drown the nagging voice in his skull that had the loathsome tradition of piping up at the most inopportune moments.

Absently his hand slipped inside his waistcoat, fingering the velvet box nestled in his pocket. He had kept the precious engagement ring at hand ever since he and Christine had boarded the train to Perros-Guirec. Outside of her childhood home— their future house, if O'Reilly's team ever finished those damned repairs to the roof— he had come within two words of proposing, then lost his nerve at the very last moment. Fortunately, Christine had been so thrilled at the prospect of moving into the house that she had overlooked his awkward lapse and quick subject change. Then, only a few nights prior, she had practically begged him to propose, only for him to falter yet again.

He did not have room to fail this time; he had one chance left, and one only. Assuming… just _assuming_ the old bat, Giolla, had been correct, God forbid, and Christine truly was… was…

Erik screwed his eyes shut and shook his head, raising his finger for another whiskey. His vision swam as the amber liquid burned its way down his throat, but suddenly everything seemed crystal clear.

It would only be a matter of time before Christine took notice of her menstrual cycle's suspension. As of now, he was fairly certain she had no idea; for all his attentiveness, even _he_ had been shocked and shaken to the core by the knowledge of her… _condition_. But, for now, there was still time. If he proposed tonight, and she accepted, he would know for certain that she wanted to be with him because she truly and deeply loved him— not because she felt an obligation to marry the father of her unborn child.

Setting the glass on his armrest with a dull clunk, he sighed and slumped down in his chair in a most ungentlemanly fashion. Blissful numbness had already begun to trickle through his nervous system. At the moment it was wonderful not to have to feel or think… just to sit back and listen to the opera. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back and allowed himself to be swept up in the swell of the music. Having lost track of the plotline entirely, he paid the performers little heed, save Christine's occasional solo lines. The first act seemed to drone on for an eternity and then end very suddenly. Before he knew it, the lights flared to life and the auditorium was filled with the deafening roar of the audience's applause and conversation.

Scowling, Erik clutched his temples and squinted against the light, slowly rising and making his way toward the shadowed part of the box. He swayed only slightly on his feet, and after a brief consideration decided to slip back into the dressing rooms to congratulate Christine on her performance so far.

Every opera house had its secrets, and this one was no different— unfortunately, he hadn't had sufficient enough practice to memorize the web of trapdoors and back entrances to this theater just yet. This meant that he had to push and shove his way through the clusters of stagehands, ballet rats, and assorted crewmen backstage to get anywhere near the dressing rooms. After five minutes, he had only managed to make about ten meters of progress. Incensed and slightly drunk, he finally stopped in the middle of a horde of people, fists balled at his sides, and bellowed.

"Everyone, get OUT OF MY WAY!"

There was a brief silence, in which everyone turned to look at him, and then suddenly with terrified looks (their eyes glued on his scowling, bone white mask) the people parted like the Red Sea for Moses. Drawing in a deep, angry breath, he marched straight through the gap and into the correct hallway, ignoring the whispers and open-mouthed stares that followed him.

When he reached Christine's room at last, intermission was nearly over. Just as he reached for the handle, however, he heard two familiar female voices.

The conversation going on behind the door made his every muscle freeze in place. Wide eyed and breathless, he pressed his ear to the door, listening hard.

------------------------------------------

**((Chrissyhead again))**

"You're _engaged_?" Christine gasped, spinning on her heel to gawk at her best friend. The petite blonde ballerina was quick to clamp her hand over Christine's gaping mouth.

"Shh!" she hissed. "You swore you wouldn't tell!"

"Mmphmimmammufuummipifith!"

"What?"

Christine reached up and pried Meg's strong fingers away from her jaw. "I said-" she panted, "-I didn't know you were planning something as foolish as this!"

"Thank you for that," Meg snapped before taking her hands in a pleading gesture. "Chris, _please_ give me your blessing. I know Maman will probably never speak to me again, and I couldn't stand to lose my sister as well!" Her sweet brown eyes misted as she looked up at her best friend with an irresistible pout. "Of all the people I know, I should think you would be the most sympathetic to my cause. Look at you and the Phant— Erik!"

"I've known Erik for nearly eleven years!" Christine exclaimed. "You've known this boy for what, six weeks?"

"Six and a half," Meg amended. At the look on her best friend's face, she added quickly, "But it was love at first sight, Christine, you must believe me! We are mad for one another." A dreamy, wistful glaze fell over her eyes as she reached up and touched her smiling lips. "He is so kind and intelligent, and he makes me laugh! Oh, Christine, I am so deeply in love with him. When he kisses me, I feel as if I've strayed into Heaven without knowing it…"

"Just kissing, though, correct?" Christine interjected sternly. When Meg averted her gaze bashfully and began to chew on her lip, she gasped and grabbed her by the shoulders, trying to force her to meet her gaze. "Marguerite Eloïse Giry, you slept with him and _you didn't tell me_?"

"It was only two nights ago!" Meg squealed as Christine shook her, her cheeks flushing a bright pink. "I planned on telling you tonight, and besides, you were sick and I didn't want to burden you any more than necessary!"

Pressing down on the little ballerina's shoulders forcefully, Christine sat down opposite her friend and fired several questions in a row. "When? Where? Were you drunk? How did you escape your mother?"

Meg buried her burning face in her hands and giggled like the girl she was. "I told you, it was this past Thursday. Rupert walked me home so I could fetch a warmer cloak and tell Maman that I was going to the café for supper with Lunette and Viola."

"Certainly she couldn't have _believed_ you— you despise Viola!"

"Obviously she did," Meg said wryly, her blush deepening. Closing her eyes, she flopped back on the divan with a delighted sigh, playing with the diamond-studded ring on her left hand. "Oh Christine, I have never been this happy in my life! I cannot believe we have to wait a whole _week_ before the wedding."

Torn between the urges to chide and congratulate her friend, Christine sat indecisively for a few moments, fiddling with the seam of her skirt. Then, very quietly, she said, "You should tell your mother, Meg."

The little ballerina shot upright, her eyes wide. "No! Absolutely not. You know as well as I do that she'd kill me. _Kill me_. She wouldn't understand."

Speaking with wisdom beyond her age, Christine continued in a soft tone, "She was once in love too. I don't doubt that she will advise against such a quick engagement, but she won't kill you, Meg. She loves you." Lowering her eyes, she whispered almost inaudibly, "You don't realize how lucky you are. I can't count how many times I've wished my mother was still alive. It would be nice to have someone to go to for advice every now and then."

Meg raised her eyebrows skeptically. "Do you think your mother would have approved of your relationship with Erik?"

With an angry glare, Christine snapped bitterly, "Perhaps if she had taken the time to get to know him, yes." The pointed edge to her tone suggested that the conversation was no longer about her mother. Meg caught on immediately and returned the frown.

"It would be a lot easier if he didn't make a habit of scaring people out of their wits. It's rather difficult to get to know a person when you're _unconscious_, don't you think?"

Standing up briskly, Christine crossed the room in a huff and snatched her brush almost violently from the vanity. "All he said was hello, and you fainted like a skittish little child. It's not his fault!"

"Right," Meg said coldly, whipping her blonde ponytail over her shoulder as she turned to the mirror and began to re-apply the makeup that had smudged beneath her eyes. "Well, forgive me for being frightened of the man who lived in the cellars because he had the face of a devil, while he stalked you from behind a two-way mirror for ten years, pretending to be a bloody Angel of Music! Of course, how childish of me! What could I possibly have been _thinking_?"

By now unshed tears were burning Christine's eyes. "_I love him, Meg_!" she shouted, unable to stand any more. The tears finally escaped in a flood as she collapsed to her knees, burying her face in her hands. There was a brief pause before she felt a small, warm hand on her shoulder. She looked up through blurred vision at her best friend's face before collapsing into her arms.

"I love him," she whimpered, still gasping with sobs.

"I know. I know, Chris… Shh, please don't cry… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I overreacted."

Wiping her face on Meg's shoulder, Christine shook her head mutely, her throat burning. The petite ballerina pulled away and held her from an arm's length, wiping the tears from Christine's cheeks.

"Come on. Let's get cleaned up. We'll be going back onstage in a few minutes."

Nodding and taking a deep breath, Christine allowed Meg to take her by the hands and pull her back to her feet. Still trembling a little, she went over to the mirror, picked up the pouf and began to dab at the bags under her eyes where the eye makeup had bled. She tried to ignore the fact that Meg was watching her like a hawk out of the corner of her eye, as if she would burst into tears again at any random moment.

_What is _wrong_ with me?_ she mused. _It was an unkind thing to say, yes, but it shouldn't have affected me so deeply._

Uneasy and suddenly a little bit nauseous, Christine placed a hand to her temple and sat down on the nearest piece of furniture. Meg was at her side in a heartbeat, her own palm pressed to Christine's forehead in concern.

"Are you feeling ill?"

Her head swam and her stomach churned, and a moment later Christine was on her hands and knees, vomiting onto the lavish Oriental rug. Meg gasped and jumped out of the way just in time, but the moment Christine ceased to throw up she helped her over to the divan and bustled around the room, trying to find something to clean up the mess.

"Here, let me just cover this," she said, obviously trying hard to keep from wrinkling her nose in disgust. She dropped several pages of newspaper over the putrid puddle, righted herself, and then hurried over to the small refreshment table by the door. Pouring a glass of water, she chattered like a loving nursemaid, "Just hold tight, Chris, and drink this, and I'll go fetch the janitor and then inform the managers that you'll be needing an understudy and—"

"No," Christine interrupted firmly, sitting up on the divan despite her stomach's rumbling protests. "No, I'm fine, really. It was probably just nerves." The lie sounded empty even to her own ears, but she continued with as much conviction as possible, "If you'd like to be of help, come tighten my corset strings, will you, dear? They came a little loose during the first act."

With blatant reluctance, Meg walked slowly over and handed the glass of water to her. "If you insist. But drink this. It will help settle your '_nerves_.'"

Christine shot her a warning look. "Don't say anything to Erik about this, all right? It took me hours to convince him that I was well enough to perform tonight in the first place."

"Evidently he was right to question you."

Sighing, Christine rubbed her temples. "You keep my secret; I'll keep yours."

"Deal," Meg agreed quickly. A comfortable silence fell between the two of them as she tightened the laces in the back of Christine's corset.

"Two minutes!" came the ballet mistress's shriek from somewhere down the hall, prompting her fingers to move faster. With a smart pat, she finished, signaling Christine to bustle over to the mirror for any last minute touch-ups.

"You know what I've been thinking about lately?" Meg asked after another long pause.

"Hmm?"

"Well, it's just…" she faltered, her cheeks coloring again. "I mean, when Rupert and I… we didn't… I mean… it's the right time of the month for me to… you know…"

Christine turned to look at her friend over her shoulder. "No, I'm afraid you've lost me."

At the need to express herself more explicitly, Meg's cheeks turned an even brighter shade of crimson. Taking a step closer to her best friend and lowering her voice, she half-whispered, "What if… I mean, what if I'm pregnant?" Christine stared numbly, the words slipping in one ear and snagging before she could fully process them. Meg seemed to take her silence as a cue to continue her explanation. "I suppose it wouldn't be too terrible, because we'll be married next week, but… it just seems so soon! I won't be sixteen for another three months. I'd have to give up my career, too. But can you imagine it, Chris? _Me_, a mother? Or worse, Maman as a _grandmother_?"

Eventually it occurred to Christine to respond. As if to make up for the heavy blush on her best friend's cheeks, her own face had gone deathly pale, and for reasons unknown to her, her heart pounded almost painfully against her ribcage.

"Yes, hysterical," she agreed with a hollow laugh. She headed toward the door, suddenly desperate to get out of that room.

Unfortunately, Meg noticed. "Chris? Christine, are you alright?"

Nodding weakly, she barreled out the door, swallowed in the crowd of other performers heading for the stage. The fact that she had no idea why she was crying again only made the tears flow faster.

----------------------------------------

**((You get the pattern now, right? –winks-))**

Erik dove out of the way when he heard Christine's footsteps approaching the door. When she burst forth, fresh tears glistening on her cheeks, his limbs physically ached from the effort of restraining himself from running after her, taking her in his arms, and escorting her back to the hotel room no matter how much she protested. It had been torture to stand helplessly outside the door while he heard her retching violently just beyond the wooden barrier, and now worse: she insisted on performing despite her unstable condition. How many times had he lectured her about singing while ill? She could damage her beautiful voice, and Erik could think of no greater tragedy on this earth.

_This child is costing more than it's worth already, _he thought bitterly, following Christine toward the stage at a careful distance. He cursed Meg Giry's waggling tongue under his breath; of all the topics she might have chosen to discuss during intermission, of all the _thousands_ of conversations she might have struck up, it just _had_ to be the fateful possibility of pregnancy. After all, Fate and Erik were well-acquainted adversaries.

This time, he did not return to his box, but planted himself stubbornly behind the same set piece where he and Christine had spoken before. His emerald eyes were trained on her form, scrutinizing her every movement. At the slightest sign that she was about to be sick, he would jam the lights and whisk her offstage… consequences be damned. The reporters would be in quick pursuit, and it wouldn't take them long to discover that this abducted soprano was the same girl who had been involved with the Opera Ghost scandal in Paris. But no matter— with a child on the way, Christine's career would be short-lived anyway. They would make haste to Russia…

Leaning back against the set piece, cloaked in shadow, he watched and waited.

And waited.

To his continuous surprise and relief, Christine showed no signs of faltering. Her throat muscles did not so much as tighten threateningly throughout the entire second act. Despite the pallor of her cheeks, she had never looked better. Her voice sailed fluidly over every note, earning scattered, appreciative applause every now and then. Fortunately, Lady da Gama continually stole the limelight, as she was a renowned favorite of all in attendance.

But with one worry down, Erik's mind took to fretting over the next pressing concern on the list. His fingers had been playing with the velvet box in his waist pocket, turning it over and over to relieve some of the restlessness that had tightened its grip on him over the past hour. Had Meg's mention of pregnancy inadvertently triggered Christine's own revelation that her own menstrual cycle was far overdue? If so, then everything was ruined, for her answer would be reliant on wellbeing of the tiny child she carried in her womb, not her love for Erik.

With one final appraising glance at Christine, Erik slipped out of the wings and made his way back to her dressing room, incapable of holding still any longer. Once the door was securely shut behind him, he took to pacing the length of the room restlessly. His mind worked a hundred kilometers a minute, trying to sort out exactly what he wanted to do.

_A rose…_ The thought hit him like a blow to the stomach, and he stopped in his tracks, his eyes going wide. He had been preparing for this night for so long, arranging every last detail in his mind's eye, and he had forgotten the _one_ tradition they had shared since the very beginning!

Scraping his fingers back across his scalp, he groaned, checked his pocket watch, and bolted for the door. The performance wouldn't end for another twenty minutes. If he hurried, he could get a rose and be back before the curtain closed…

-------------------------------------------

The orchestra's final, triumphant notes rose in a brilliant crescendo as the red curtains swished shut. Christine turned to grin at her fellow cast members, rising from her deep bow with flushed cheeks. The audience was still on its feet, cheering wildly, and Christine could not help but giggle as she hugged Bianca and exchanged light kisses on each cheek.

"You were brilliant," Bianca assured her, squeezing her shoulder.

"Not nearly as brilliant as you," Christine replied humbly, still unable to wipe the grin from her face.

"Signora Guerrier!" came the familiar voice of her character's love interest. She turned to hug and kiss her fellow actor chastely. "A group of us are going down to Gregorio's for a drink. Care to join us?" He offered his arm with a charming smile, and Christine sighed as she shook her head.

"I'm terribly sorry, Vince, but I've been feeling a bit under the weather today. I think I'd better go home and get some rest."

With an adorable pout, he leaned down to kiss her forehead before making the same offer to Bianca, who gladly accepted. Christine watched them go with her smile still glued firmly in place before rubbing her eyes tiredly and heading back toward her dressing room. During the performance, she had managed to forget the bad note Meg and she had ended on, but at the sight of the door it all came back to her in a rush.

What had they been discussing, anyway? In the afterglow of the successful performance, Christine honestly couldn't remember. Dismissing her brief breakdown as nothing more than pre-show jitters, she let herself into the room, crinkling her nose at the offensive odor coming from the sodden pile of newspapers by the divan. Evidently Meg had forgotten to tell the janitor about the mess.

Sighing, Christine began to unlace her corset, wishing very much that Meg had stayed behind at least long enough to help her undress before trouncing off with Rupert. Following the train of thought, she wondered irritably where Erik was… certainly _he_ never objected to helping her remove clothing.

Lost in thought, Christine's reflections on the performance and Erik's temporary absence collided and melded into one conscious stream. In playing the role of a bride forced to hide her marriage, she could not help but fall prey to dangerous thoughts of her own potential wedding. On the train to Perros-Guirec, she had assured herself that she could be happy just being in Erik's company, as his lover and mistress. They were happy together, weren't they?

… _Weren't they?_

Christine shut her eyes, trying not to remember the painful disappointment of practically asking Erik to propose to her over a beautiful candlelit supper, and being denied to her face. The air had been laden with sorrow that evening, and their relationship had not fully recovered since. Now, alone in her dressing room, having played out an opera with a happy ending achieved through the marriage of those who truly loved one another, and having seen the radiant gleam in her best friend's eye as she showed off her engagement ring, Christine wanted nothing more than to open her eyes and find Erik standing right in front of her, ring in hand.

_Stop fooling yourself, _her mind whispered practically. Sighing, she opened her eyes, and screamed.

To her utter shock, Erik stood before her, just as she had imagined him… but instead of a ring, he held a blood red rose, tied with his signature black ribbon.

Raising an eyebrow, he offered the rose to her and smiled faintly. "Who else were you expecting?"

Putting a hand to her frantically beating heart, Christine laughed at herself and shook her head, taking the rose. "No one." A slightly uncomfortable silence hung between them before Erik stepped forward, taking her into his arms.

"You were wonderful," he whispered, kissing her tenderly.

"Thank you."

Another silence, even more uncomfortable than the first. Suddenly Erik pulled away, looking about the room with a crinkled nose. "What's that smell?"

Biting her lip like a child awaiting punishment, she shifted her eyes hesitantly over to the soggy newspapers. "I… was a little bit nervous during intermission."

She was shocked when, instead of frowning and chiding her, Erik reached up to cup her cheek with his warm, calloused palm. "You had no need to be," he assured her with another gentle kiss. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it over here to see you during intermission; the backstage area is a zoo between acts."

Smiling, Christine snuggled into his chest. "You still haven't found any short cuts, secret passages, swinging bookshelves, or two-way mirrors yet, Monsieur le Fantôme? Frankly, I'm appalled," she teased.

"I shall get to work on it first thing tomorrow morning. But at the moment…" His voice lowered to little more than a husky whisper as he trailed kisses along the elegant column of her neck. "I have more important matters to attend to."

Raising her eyebrows playfully, Christine tilted her head back to allow him easier access. "Really? And what would those matters entail?"

Grinning, Erik began to walk her backwards toward the nearest armchair, murmuring against her skin, "You… wearing absolutely nothing…"

Unable to suppress a giggle, Christine prodded, "Mmhmm, so far, so good… and what else?"

For a fleeting moment Erik pulled away, his brow lowered in a thoughtful frown. "That's as far as I've gotten."

Laughing outright, she spun him around and pushed him down into the chair, climbing onto his lap with a coquettish grin. "Let me help you," she offered, tugging at his cravat. "First, you shall tell me how divinely beautiful I look tonight, and I shall call you a liar and love you all the more for it."

His breathing grew more erratic by the moment as Christine's deft fingers unbuttoned the front of his shirt. "Very well. Christine, you look div—"

She silenced him with a kiss, and pulled away when he tried to deepen it. "I wasn't finished!" she insisted. "Next, you shall pull away like the gentleman you are and insist that we mustn't engage in such wanton activities when an innocent, unsuspecting young ballet rat could walk in on us at any given moment."

Frowning, Erik objected, "Why would I do that? They've all gone home for the night…"

"And finally," she interrupted, as if he hadn't said a word. Then Christine paused, staring deeply into his eyes. Her every instinct told her to just say it… to just do it. Swallowing hard against a throat that now seemed as dry as a desert, she leaned in and kissed him gently. Without pulling away, she whispered against his lips, "I shall ask you to marry me, Erik, and pray with all my heart that your answer will be 'yes.'"

Erik's eyes widened, a sharp exhalation leaving his mouth as if she had dealt him a powerful blow to the chest. Suddenly his featured hardened, and he gripped her shoulders, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh.

"_What did you say_?"

**A/N: -shifty eyes- Oh, look! A wall! –stares at it to avoid looking at any of you-**

**Sorry! Cliffhangers are just so freakin' FUN! Mwahaha. Ha. Hum. –scratches neck- Hey, do I at least get kudos for all the E/C cuddly kissy time? –wide doe eyes-**

**Oh. MY. GAWD! (Chandler? Chandler Bing?) All of a sudden, I get a whole bunch of you who either just started reading this story, or decided to review it after following along for a while. That was the most reviews I've ever received for any chapter of any story. You guys are AMAZING! Over 800 reviews now. Have I mentioned that I LOVE you people to itty bitty pieces?**

**It was my birthday on March 1st, and I haven't updated since then, so as the best birthday present EVER, (in the words of Kat097) "feed a review whore's addiction!" LOL!**

**-leftover birthday cake, ice cream, and Martinelli's for all- **


	41. Comte

**A/N: Pssh, you didn't REALLY think I'd resolve the whole E/C proposal dilemma, did you? -cackles- **

**(This one's very deserving of the M rating. Those of you under… say, 15, scram!) **

**Anyone up for some irony? -grins-**

Her large brown eyes swept across the portrait, following the deft swirls of fine oil paint. Four beautiful children stood before her, solemn-faced except for the youngest boy— a child of perhaps four years with straw colored hair and an infectious smile. Emily found her own lips slightly upturned as she stared, transfixed, at the life size quartet.

"My siblings and I," said a voice directly behind her, causing her to jump. She whirled about to stare at the lazy grin and bloodshot blue eyes of a man she had come to know as the Comte de Chagny— _Philippe_, he insisted. Self-consciously she touched her flushed cheeks, willing her heart to stop hammering.

"You frightened me, m'sieur."

His grin only broadened as he took a slightly off-balance step toward her. "I'm the tall, serious one," he said, gesturing toward the painting. "Though you'd never have guessed it by looking at me now, would you?" And just as suddenly as his smile had appeared, it was gone, replaced by a cold, frighteningly empty glare. "I have not always been like this, though. No…" It occurred to Emily that he was no longer speaking to her, or to anyone in particular. Partially intrigued, and far happier to make small talk than to take him to bed, she stood quietly, letting him proceed with what seemed to be a much-needed monologue. She did not move when he brushed past her to stand close to the portrait. He studied it for a long moment, his distant eyes wandering over the children's faces before settling on that of the little smiling boy. Drawing in a ragged breath, he slowly reached up shaking fingers to caress the boy's cheek. When his fingertips touched canvas instead of flesh, however, he seemed to snap from his trance, and suddenly became angry.

"No," he reiterated softly, his voice trembling with fury. "I was not always this way. I was the responsible one. Sensible Philippe. Brilliant Philippe. Patient Philippe." Though he no longer touched the portrait, his tear-filled eyes lingered on the little boy's face. "My father was always away on business. Mother never recovered after Elisabeth was born. When she died I was left to care for my brother and sisters."

Unconsciously, Emily took a step closer, her brows knitted with a concern she didn't quite understand. Though this man had seemed at first to be nothing more than a drunken, spoiled young count, there was something kindly about his features… something almost _familiar_…

"And so, you see, I was forced into a role of responsibility when I was very young." He paused, his eyes shifting over to the two small girls in the picture. "When my sisters were taken by consumption, I became fiercely protective of my brother. He was such a good boy… attentive, respectful, polite. And Christ, was he intelligent. He had a fascination with the arts: literature, art, dance, music… especially opera." Philippe closed his eyes and gave a small shake of his head. "I had such high hopes for him. He could have had any woman in France. I'm sure Grandfather was rolling in his grave when he fell in love with a bloody opera star. We became the laughingstock of Paris. I tried to tell him that our reputation was all we had left, but he wouldn't hear of it. He ran off and married her, and a month later he was dead." Every word was punctuated with bitterness, and the muscles in his neck were taut and pulsing.

Emily's eyes were wide. "What 'appened?"

He threw her a sharp glare, as if he had forgotten her presence entirely. "A shipwreck, the official reports said." His eyes crackled with skepticism and underlying rage. "But I don't believe it for a moment. The woman he married, the soprano, was a raving lunatic. Kept telling this tall tale about an _Opera Ghost_, of all things. She even managed to convince my brother of its existence. They were both mad."

"You… think she killed 'im? Your brother, I mean?"

Philippe shrugged angrily. "She disappeared about a week after he was reported dead. The investigators didn't even have a chance to question her before she ran off. What does that suggest to _you_?"

Emily bit her lip and lowered her gaze to the polished hardwood floor. A few seconds of silence ensued before Philippe nodded. "My thoughts exactly." Emily didn't look up as his footsteps approached her from behind, and she managed to keep her expression neutral as his warm, trembling hand brushed her brown curls away from her neck. A moment later his lips caressed the hollow spot where her collarbone and neck met, and she shivered involuntarily.

"So now you see," he breathed into her ear. "I have become that which I once despised." His large, square hands crept down to her waist and spun her slowly to face him. Though he spoke monotonously, pain beyond measure shone in his eyes. "Earthly pleasures help me forget." And then his mouth covered hers, and she could not help but kiss him back; an unexplained plea rose in her heart to comfort him. Though she had met him less than an hour ago, she felt as if she had known him all her life. Some vague memory hovered on the rim of consciousness, driving her mad. There was something about Philippe de Chagny that was unmistakably familiar to her. But _what_?

His kiss was hungry— ravenous, even. Their tongues met and entwined in a drugging, primal rhythm, unbroken even as he cupped her face and led her up the stairs. Emily could do nothing but stumble blindly forward, forced to trust her escort not to let her fall. Fortunately, Philippe seemed to know the mansion's layout by heart, and after several brief delays of smacking one another up against the walls, devouring one another's mouths heatedly, they finally reached the door to his bedroom. Philippe's hand left her neck to turn the handle, then shifted down to her waist as he pushed the door open with his hip, pulling her inside.

It was pitch black, to Emily's mixed relief and fear. Philippe was a handsome man, and it would not have been difficult to look upon his lean, muscular form with earnest admiration, but her performance was usually better when she did not have to meet the eyes of her customer. Still, she had heard horror stories of men who abused prostitutes in the dark where there were no witnesses. Back in Brighton, there had once been a woman who was so badly assaulted that she bled to death over the course of two long, excruciating days. While Philippe did not seem the type, Emily was wary nonetheless. Alcohol could warp even the gentlest man's mind.

Her fervor weakened slightly with her mounting nerves, and to her horror, Philippe noticed. Breaking the kiss, he pulled away for a brief moment, and for a few seconds there was no noise or movement but their ragged breathing. Then suddenly, his fingers found the neckline of her dress and slowly slid it down her shoulders. She drew in a sharp breath through clenched teeth as his hand glided down the curve of her lower back, pulling her tightly against him. There was no question that she was doing her job well; he was hard and demanding against her lower abdomen. Surprisingly, this knowledge incurred her own arousal, and she found her head swimming. When was the last time she had actually enjoyed the feeling of a man's flesh? It had been years…

Emily moaned aloud when his warm mouth found her breast, suckling and nipping gently at the sensitive skin. It was odd, she noted in the back of her mind, that a customer would lavish such attentions on a humble prostitute. He was paying _her_, not vice versa.

There was something about the entire situation that made her terribly uneasy, but the gentle urgency of the Comte's probing hands and mouth was gradually making her forget her doubts. A practiced lover he might not be, but he certainly seemed to be proving his natural talent.

The backs of her legs pressed against silk, and then she couldn't breathe— Philippe's greater weight crushed her into what felt like a mattress. Afraid of losing consciousness, she pressed up with all her might and flipped him onto his back. They rolled across the bed in a tangle of limbs, mouths, sheets, and sweat, enticed by the darkness into a primitive, lusting oblivion. Clawing at one another's clothes, biting and tasting, their bodies locked and swayed to an unheard tempo. Open-mouthed gasps and groans escalated to breathless screams as white hot pleasure exploded within her, pitching her over the edge. Two more thrusts and Philippe followed, collapsing on top of her with a throaty whimper.

Gradually Emily regained her senses, and groped in the twisted sheets for her dress. It must have been close to an hour since she had followed Philippe into the carriage with his drunken friends. She could not chance staying much longer; if Raoul or Mr. Khan woke up to find her missing, there would be Hell to pay.

Philippe did not seem thrilled with the idea. His warm, sweaty hand enveloped her arm as she found her dress and tugged it over her head. "Was I really that bad?" he jested. She could hear the good-natured amusement in his tone, and sighed. If only all of her customers were so genial.

"Not at all," she assured him, standing up to try and wriggle into the tight dress. When she finally managed to get the snug bodice properly fitted, she bent down and offered him a brief, heated kiss. Immediately he moaned, trying to pull her down, but she pulled away with a coquettish grin and walked toward the sliver of yellow light around the doorframe. She heard the mattress creak as he leapt out of bed and blocked her way, standing in front of the door. For a moment her heart went cold— she remembered the abused prostitute who had bled to death, and absently squeezed her thighs tightly together.

His gentle tone, however, immediately dissolved any doubts she had harbored. "I want to see you again."

Stifling a sigh of relief, she nodded, forgetting that he couldn't see the gesture. "I think I'll be workin' nights for a' least a few more days."

"Days?" Philippe asked incredulously. "Where are you going?"

Emily shifted, shrugging. "I wish I knew."

And then, suddenly, brilliance hit. Her eyes snapped up to his silhouette, just barely visible in the dim light seeping through the cracks around the door. Unwittingly adopting a mysterious, seductive voice, she sidled a bit closer and asked huskily, "You wouldn't, perchance, be interested in a long-term arrangement, would you?" Her fingers worked in delicate, tempting circles at his waistline, rewarded by the Comte's strangled gasp of pleasure.

"Wh… what kind of arr…rangement were you think…ing?" he panted.

A triumphant smile lifted Emily's face as her hand traveled further down. "One that, I believe," she whispered, "Will be equally favorable for both of us."

"Name it!" Philippe practically screamed, his voice choked with passion.

Her smile broadened into a grin. Perhaps the Comte de Chagny was a noble gentleman, but he was still a _man_. And Emily knew exactly how to work men in order to get what she wanted.

"I 'ave a friend," she whispered sensuously in his ear, nibbling playfully at his earlobe, "Who 'ad a most unfortunate accident…"

"Such a shame," the Comte agreed, hardly hearing a word she said.

"Indeed. You see, 'e's very ill… lost 'is memory, poor soul. Now the pitiful brute thinks I'm 'is wife, an' I can't very well tell 'im the truth, or the doctor said 'e might inflict self 'arm… even suicide."

_Where do I come up with these things?_ she wondered as the lies poured effortlessly from her mouth.

"We can't have that!" Philippe gasped as her deft hands worked their magic. He was coming dangerously close to the edge again, she noticed astutely, and immediately she pulled her hand away, using it to press him up against the door.

"I'm glad you see my point," she purred, kissing a trail up the sturdy column of his throat. She paused at his ear again, her lips hovering millimeters from his flesh. "So 'ere's my proposal: one month, I'll stay 'ere with you, no charge. All you 'ave to do is put on a little show; pretend to be the poor bloke's brother. 'E's too sick to even leave 'is bed, so 'e won't be interrupting us none. We'll jus' set up a room for 'im, get one of your servants to tend to 'im…" Her hand traveled down his front again as a reminder of what she offered. "And then you and I can spend the next thirty-one days doing whatever we please…"

Philippe surprised her with an insight she had not expected him to procure. "What's in it for you?"

She made sure not to hesitate more than half a second before replying smoothly, "Per'aps you weren't the only one who enjoyed the past hour."

Flattery never failed.

"Tomorrow," the Comte agreed, kissing her briefly on the lips. She could hear the smile in his voice. "I'll be at the front gate to greet you and my _brother_ at noon."

**A/N: -squeals with glee- Do you know what this means? I've created a love PENTAGON! Christine and Raoul are technically married, but Christine's in love with Erik, and Raoul thinks he's married to Emily, who is unknowingly sleeping with his brother.**

… **Believe it or not, I've never watched a soap opera in my life. Well, not a full episode— sometimes I'll pause for a moment on one of the Spanish channels and start mocking… ****"Enrique, te amo! Pero por qué estás en la cama de mi MADRE?" **

**I heart chaos. –giggle-**


	42. Interrupted

**A/N: -shudders- Okay, done with the mid-chapter POV swaps. I'm still twitching. Lol! Let's see if we can't resolve one conflict and move onto the next on the list, hmm? –winks-**

**You are all going to be mightily confused if you accidentally skipped over chapter 40. Initially I posted an author's note there, but I took it down soon afterwards and replaced it with the actual chapter itself. If you didn't notice and just read chapter 41, I'd HIGHLY suggest you go back and read, or chances are you'll be utterly lost. Haha.**

**Yet ANOTHER chapter deserving of its rating. It's been too long since I've given you guys some E/C fluff, huh? Enjoy it while it lasts, because I don't throw it in all that often. ;)**

The blood seemed to have frozen in his veins. For a moment, time stood still, and he could do nothing but stare at her incredulously.

And then doubt, as old as his conscious memory, hit him hard and fast; a molten mixture of rage and howling remorse shot through him with the shock of a live wire. From infancy, he had been taught never to trust in a good thing. Goodness was vulnerable. Goodness could be pretended and corrupted. His heart burned to trust her, but his soul had been whipped into submission far too many times to dare to hope.

His fingers were digging into the flesh of her arms. He was hurting her. _Christine was in pain_. The thought, like all others, hit him like a brick to the stomach. He released her just as instantly as he had grabbed her, watching in disbelief as pools of dark blood gathered beneath the skin where his fingertips had been.

Christine was speaking to him, pleading in a remorseful murmur, but all he could hear was the roar of blood in his ears. His gaze shifted of its own accord to her abdomen— flat and toned, as it had always been. In another month, maybe two, the skin would be swollen and stretched as it grew to accommodate the child nestled snugly beneath it. Another four months, and Christine would groan and writhe, incapable of finding a comfortable position. Another two, and she would scream and thrash on the bed, her forehead soaked in sweat, her muscles worked beyond endurance and still straining to bring their child into the world.

His eyes shut beneath the suddenly unbearable burden of his eyelids. Too many women— daughters, sisters, lovers, wives— went into the birthing room and never came out. Newborn babies died before they ever saw a day on earth; their mothers died of heartbreak. So much peril… so much risk…

Christine could die in childbirth, and their baby with her. And if anything happened to either of them, it would be entirely Erik's fault. An eternity in Hell could not absolve him of such a deplorable sin.

She had asked him to marry her. The words themselves had not been presented to him in a question, but in a breathless command. He could not have refused her even if he wanted to. Never in his life had Erik wanted to be a father. But he knew that Christine, his precious, naïve Christine, would fight for this child's life with every weapon, physical and psychological, that she possessed. That she was willing to bind herself to her baby's father before God was the ultimate testament to her love for the child growing inside of her. In the past few months, Erik had not precisely nurtured Christine's Catholic upbringing, but still she sang Mass every Sunday morning and said her prayers before bed. Erik knew the sins she had committed for his sake, both consciously and unwittingly— he shuddered to think of what she would do if she ever discovered that her husband was still alive; that she had been committing adultery for the past two months…

Although he still firmly denied the existence of a God, Erik had been raised a devout Catholic. He knew that, according to Christine's beliefs, their child could not be a bastard. He understood why Christine had proposed to him— no, practically _told_ him that he was going to marry her. It was a matter of saving their baby's soul, in the case that it didn't survive long enough to be baptized.

Yes, Erik understood perfectly well why Christine had proposed to him. And his heart bled with the knowledge that if he had only asked the same question a month ago, in Perros Guirec, her answer would have been based on her love and loyalty to him, not the child they had created out of wedlock.

Deflated, with sad, glazed eyes, he looked deeply at Christine and answered in a hoarse whisper, "Yes, love. I will marry you." In the ensuing moment of silence, during which Christine simply gaped at him, tears brimming in her eyes, he procured the small velvet box from his waistcoat and opened it for her inspection.

Even more bemused, Christine looked from the dazzling engagement ring to Erik's somber expression and back again. Placing one hand to her mouth with a shallow, delayed gasp, she breathed incredulously, "You… you were going to…?"

He silenced her by taking the hand pressed to her gaping lips and transferring it to his own. With a gentle kiss to the smooth skin of her palm, he slipped the precious ring onto her finger, never breaking eye contact. Tears of joy, more radiant than any diamond, slipped down Christine's cheeks as she beamed up at him. Desperate not to let his sorrow and doubt ruin the moment, Erik kissed her deeply, burying his hands in her rich, silken curls. Losing himself in the taste of her sweet mouth and salty tears, he managed to forget their tiny, unborn child and all the dangers and uncertainties that accompanied it. For those few blissful minutes, he allowed himself to pretend that everything was as it should be. Following his own commands from what seemed an eternity ago, he abandoned thought and lowered his defenses, moving forward on instinct.

His fingers moved with utmost delicacy as they unlaced the ties of Christine's corset. Meg had pulled the laces so tight that he could feel crisscrossing indentations in the smooth skin of Christine's back. When he finally managed to remove the strangling contraption from her torso, she let out a long, low moan and broke their kiss, stretching her arms over her head like a contented cat. Smiling, Erik took the opportunity to grab her wrists in one hand and support her back with the other as he scooted them off of the armchair and down to the carpeted floor. He pinned Christine's arms over her head and balanced his weight on his elbows, which were stationed on either side of her shoulders. Consumed by the desire to bury himself in her warm, wet core, he deepened and intensified their kiss, pushing his tongue heatedly against hers. Moaning deep in her throat, Christine responded instantly with her own tongue and began to writhe impatiently beneath him.

Erik smiled at her eagerness, only too happy to fulfill the mutual need. Moving his lips down to her throat, he went to work on the clasps holding the front of her starched white bodice in place. If there was one thing he hated about these shows, it was the number of layers the costumes entailed. Christine aided him as best she could, wriggling her shoulders out of each layer and kicking them away once Erik managed to push them down her front. By the time he got down to her chemise he could hardly get a grasp on the material, his hands were shaking so feverishly from desire. Wanting to assist him as quickly as possible, Christine wrenched the thin muslin dress over her head and lay bare beneath him at last. Fortunately, it took a great deal less time for her to remove his clothing, while Erik occupied himself with covering every inch of her bare skin in kisses.

When at last there was not a stitch of clothing separating them, Erik did not hesitate for a second before settling himself between Christine's legs. She moaned and shivered as he entered her swiftly, overwhelmed by primitive lust. Her legs locked around his hips, drawing him deeper inside of her, and Erik was undone. Incapable of waiting any longer, he pushed forward with an animalistic growl, encouraged by his lover's quiet, blissful sighs.

Lost in the drugging, blinding pleasure of one another's bodies, neither Erik nor Christine noticed when the dressing room door flew open, and another couple staggered into the room, mouths and tongues locked in a fevered kiss.

Indeed, not until the male half of the intrusive couple— a redheaded Irishman— opened his eyes and released an unrepeatable string of curses did Erik and Christine look up and scream.

"MEG?" they shouted in unison as Christine scrambled to cover herself and hide behind the armchair.

"CHRISTINE? Oh my—" The blonde ballerina blushed five shades of red, burying her face in the cursing Irishman's chest. "Oh God, oh holy Jesus! I'm so sorry! I didn't think— Oh God! Rupert, come on… oh shit… Christine, I'm so sorry!"

And then the dressing room shut behind the flabbergasted Giry girl and her fiancé, who had ceased to cuss and was instead laughing hysterically. Erik could still hear the Irishman's booming laughter and Meg's raving hysterics as they wound through the halls toward the exit, and then another door shut and there was silence.

Neither he nor Christine had moved a muscle since the dressing room had slammed shut. Slowly, very slowly, he turned to look at her, and found her eyes wide, her hair mussed, and her cheeks bright pink.

To his credit, he fought very hard to fight the swell of laughter that rose in his throat, but wound up choking on it instead, which in turn only made him laugh harder. Christine turned sharply to look at him, appalled.

"Erik!" she shrieked, slamming her palm down on the floor. "This is not in _any way_ funny!"

Biting down on his lip until it turned white, shaking violently with the laughter he was trying to suppress, Erik nodded and whimpered in agreement, trying to keep his face in a neutral position and failing miserably.

To his surprise, Christine suddenly burst into tears, hugging her knees to her chest and burying her face in them. "Oh _God_, that was so embarrassing! I can't _believe_ that just happened…"

Swallowing several times until he was fairly sure his voice wouldn't crack, Erik scooted closer to her and rubbed her forearm soothingly. "There, there, _mon ange_, no need for tears." His voice wavered with another threat of laughter, but he bit it back by clenching his jaw until it cramped.

Christine sniffled for another few seconds, then wiped her eyes on her wrists and looked up at him pitifully.

"Meg walked in on us making love," she moaned.

"So it would seem," Erik replied, doing everything in his power to keep a straight face. Christine stared him dead in the eye for another long moment before the faintest smile touched her lips.

"Well, perhaps it was a little bit amusing," she concurred, her eyes dancing. "You should have seen the expression on your face!"

"I'm sure it was quite a sight to behold," Erik said, not wanting to chance another emotional breakdown by informing her of the uproarious expression that had contorted her _own _face. She was quite self-conscious enough as it was!

Christine grinned for another moment before rolling her eyes to the ceiling and collapsing into his chest with a dramatic sigh. "Oh God, that was terrible. Meg will not be able to look at me for weeks."

Chuckling, Erik kissed her head and smoothed her frazzled hair. "Well, now that the moment is sufficiently ruined," he sighed, getting to his feet, "Let's bundle you up in all those layers again and go out for some supper and a drink, hmm?"

Christine allowed him to help her to her feet and nodded. "Just as long as we don't pick the same restaurant as Meg and Rupert."

"Why not?" Erik jested, slipping his arms into his now-wrinkled white shirt. "I'm sure it would be a positively fascinating conversation."

-----------------------------------------------

Two helpings of salad, pasta, bread, Merlot, and tiramisu later, Erik and Christine strode arm-in-arm beneath the street lights and the stars, still laughing quietly about the night's mishap.

"She had better not breathe a word about this to anyone at the opera," Christine murmured, resting her head on Erik's shoulder. "The last thing I need is to develop a reputation as a harlot."

"I'm sure you have nothing to worry about. It might seem that Mademoiselle Giry was born with gossip on her lips, but I do not believe she is one to betray her best friend's secrets."

They fell into a warm, comfortable silence for the rest of the walk back to the Hotel Gabriella. Halfway up the staircase to the second floor, they were interrupted by a sudden burst of light from behind them, and Giolla's tentative call.

"Oh… Signore Guerrier, is that you?"

Erik turned to face her with one eyebrow raised sardonically. _As if it would be anyone else?_

Giolla nodded and held up a small white envelope. "An urgent message arrived while you were out, signore."

Suddenly alert and frowning, Erik extended his hand and took the envelope, turning it over to study the seal. Christine touched his arm, her brow lowered in concern.

"Who is it from?"

"Nadir," he answered shortly. With a curt nod to Giolla, he placed his hand at the small of Christine's back and ushered her hastily up to their room. The door had not even clicked shut behind them before he tore the envelope unceremoniously, his heart pounding.

The frown lines between his eyebrows deepened with every line he read.

_Erik,_

_We have a problem. The Vicomte has returned to Paris with his British escort. To be blunt, it appears that the young lady has offered her services to none other than the Comte de Chagny himself. It is only a matter of time before everything is out in the open. Tell me what you wish me to do, Erik, and I will not hesitate to execute your plans. But do not be brash, my friend. Too much is at stake._

_Yours,_

_Nadir_

Erik's eyelids fluttered shut, and he clenched the fist holding the letter and tossed the crumpled paper into the fireplace. Fortunately, Christine knew him well enough to hold her tongue and keep her distance, but he could hear the unspoken question hanging in the air as clearly as if she had voiced it.

With an eerie, frightening calm, he turned to her, opened his eyes halfway, and hissed between clenched teeth, "Pack your things, Christine. We must return to Paris at once."

**A/N: Oh, come on, it's not REALLY a cliffhanger… much… If I had left it off at Erik receiving the letter, and not giving you his reaction, THEN it would have been a cliffhanger. –smiles sweetly-**

**I'm just getting warmed up, guys. It's about to get real messy real quick. Writing this story is like playing chess, I suppose… I have to keep my eye on all of the characters at once, keep them moving forward, and keep them as close to and/or as far away from one another as possible to avoid or arrange losses. **

**Coming up: Erik, Christine, Raoul, Emily, and Philippe all in one city. Ohh, the possibilities… MwahahahaHA! **


	43. Reunion

**A/N: Gah, I can't even begin to apologize for this outrageously long stretch without an update. As an attempt to make up for it a little teeny fraction of a bit, though, I come bearing a double update! These chapters go hand-in-hand, so I thought I might as well wait to post them both together— that's one of the reasons this has taken so long. Sorry guys! The AP exams are this week, and afterwards we're basically watching movies in class and goofing off. Our teachers can't fight senioritis forever. ;) Anyways, I should be able to update a lot more frequently. **

_It was the same nightmare: Churning, icy water drained the sensation from his legs as he waded through the long white hallway, clamping his hands over his ears to drown out the painfully familiar song of the Siren— or perhaps Angel; he could not be certain of anything in this place. _

Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime  
Say the word and I will follow you...

_There was no screaming infant this time. He reached the door to the room in which he had found her last time, and heaved it open. Brilliant white light burned his eyes as he gazed inside; the Siren-Angel sat in a rocking chair by the empty bassinet, cradling two tiny bundles. Drawn by an unseen force to her side, he looked on in horror. _

_One baby squirmed and cooed in the crook of her right arm, looking up at him with wide, inquisitive green eyes. But the other, the girl-child he had tried to rescue, was silent and stiff, a peaceful expression locked on her pale blue face. _

_The Siren-Angel did not appear to notice that the child cradled in her left arm was dead. She gazed adoringly from one baby to the next, her heavenly voice echoing from every corner of the small room._

Share each day with me,  
Each night, each morning...

_The water continued to rise. Already the Siren-Angel's legs were submerged to the knee. If she did not stand up, the new, green-eyed child would soon meet the same fate as the first. _

_He could not simply stand there and watch. "You must come!" he cried desperately, gesturing for her to stand. The water touched the edge of the baby's blanket. Slowly, the Siren-Angel looked up with large, sad eyes. It took him a moment to realize that she wasn't staring at him, but past him… _

_She sang out one last, mournful plea:_ Say you love me!

_Before he could respond, a powerful, rich, masculine voice flooded the room_: You know I do.

_Suddenly the bright room was cast in shadow, and a dark, menacing figure appeared out of nowhere. It snatched the living child from the Siren-Angel's arms and disappeared as quickly as it had come. With its departure, the shadows vanished, and the room regained its blinding light. _

_The Siren-Angel sat motionless, staring mournfully at the dead child in her arms. Then she began to rock it gently, holding it to her heart. The water continued to rise. _

_Gasping as the icy swell reached his thighs, he reached out bravely and grabbed the Siren-Angel's arm. "Come with me," he begged. "Please, before it's too late!" _

_Her smooth brow furrowed slightly. "Shh… the baby is sleeping. You mustn't wake her." _

_Despair flooded him with a shuddering chill more powerful than the water lapping at his waistline. He could not save her. Despite her song's sweet assurances, she would not follow him. With an anguished cry, he turned on his heel and ran. _

_After running hard against the strengthening current for what seemed like kilometers, he reached an intersection of two hallways which both seemed to stretch on infinitely. He lingered there, torn as to which path to take, but pressured by the rise of the water to make his decision quickly. _

_Down the hallway to his right, a soft voice was calling his name. Another survivor? Was a search party looking for him? Heartened by the sound of another living being, he made up his mind. _

"_Raoul… Raoul…"_

"Raoul…" A hand was shaking his shoulder. His eyes snapped open, and were immediately blinded by the white sunlight that poured through the living room window. Hissing at the pain that exploded in his head, he shifted a hand up to shield his eyes and turned instinctively away from the searing light.

The hand did not leave his shoulder. A pleasingly accented voice that he was beginning to recognize as Nadir Khan's continued to speak gently. "Monsieur, your wife is waiting outside with a carriage to deliver you to your brother's house."

_Wife… brother… _

Still reeling from the imagined pinpricks of icy ocean water, it took him a moment to reassemble the puzzle pieces that were his life. When they finally clicked into place, he opened his eyes again— more slowly this time— and stared curiously up at the Persian.

"She contacted him?"

An unnamed emotion flickered in Nadir's green eyes as he nodded, his lips pursed. "Early this morning. She did not wish to wake you."

With a great deal of effort, Raoul managed to brace his neck against the arm of the couch and wriggle the lower half of his body backwards until he was sitting upright. The Persian watched patiently, and Raoul was infinitely grateful for the fact that he didn't try to help him. He smiled sheepishly between coughs, and when they finally subsided he spoke as steadily as he could.

"I cannot thank you enough for what you've done for us, Monsieur Khan. We will send reimbursement for our stay as soon as I can work again-"

Nadir shook his head. "No, please, don't bother. It is Allah's command to aid the sick and the suffering. At the moment, you are both."

"But we would have paid you had there been room in your hotel," Raoul reminded him.

"True, but there was not. If you believe in fate, Monsieur, then let it be." Before he could protest, the Persian tightened his grip on Raoul's shoulder. "A man has an empty life indeed if he must be compensated for every charitable act he does."

Raoul could not argue that point, so he lowered his eyes in submission and instead reached up to clasp the dark hand that still rested on his shoulder. "Thank you," he said again. The Persian nodded, and no more was said between them as he helped Raoul to his feet, bearing the majority of the ill Frenchman's weight as they crossed the room and descended the apartment stairs. Emily took over once they were on the sidewalk next to the carriage, but Nadir hovered close by just in case his assistance was needed. After shifting from one pair of supportive arms to another several times and suffering a painful coughing fit, Raoul managed to climb into the hansom and collapse on the bench, wheezing. He had no wind to say hello to his wife or goodbye to Nadir, so he nodded wearily at both of them and hoped they would understand. Warm smiles indicated that they did.

As the carriage lurched forward, Raoul closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks for Nadir Khan. He did not, therefore, see the cold, threatening glares that passed between Emily and the Persian, nor the little Arabian mare and her dark-skinned rider that trailed them dutifully to the gates of the de Chagny mansion before disappearing into the mid-morning crowd like an apparition.

----------------------------------------

A tall, slightly stooped old man waited for them at the main entrance, flanked by an army of servants waiting to receive them. Raoul could not help but raise an eyebrow skeptically at the sight of the elderly gentleman; though he was dressed well, he didn't quite have the air of a count of France.

Emily exited the carriage first, and immediately a swarm of maids surrounded her, offering to take her coat and hat, prepare a hot bath for her, fetch her some tea or a late breakfast. She seemed taken aback for a moment, and then a bright blush crept into her cheeks.

"Pardon… but d' any of you speak English?" she murmured, her cheeks flushing a darker red with each word.

Two of the girls stepped forward, triumphant smiles lighting up their faces as they led her toward the house, repeating the same questions in slower, over-annunciated English. Raoul chuckled quietly and was launched into a fit of barking coughs that drew the attention of the remaining servants to the still-occupied carriage. Finally, the stooped old man strode over to the carriage and poked his balding head inside.

"Can I get a wheelchair for you, monsieur?"

"Please," Raoul agreed between coughs.

The man ducked out of the shadowed carriage again, gesturing forward yet another servant— a nurse, judging by her uniform. Taking a deep breath, Raoul pushed himself up on unsteady legs, and allowed the woman to help him down into the wheelchair. She smiled warmly at him and inquired as to how he was feeling. He returned the gesture and answered truthfully that he had been better.

It took him a moment to realize that the nurse was the only one who had spoken to him, unlike the other servants who had practically tackled his wife, bowing at her hand and foot. Puzzled, he glanced at the twenty-some people gathered just a few meters ahead of him, and frowned.

Dead silence had fallen over the servants of the de Chagny household. Disbelief and gaping mouths were focused on him. Some of the older women crossed themselves. The stooped old man stepped back a few feet, looking very much as if he were about to faint dead away.

Overwhelmed and terribly self-conscious, Raoul looked desperately to the nurse who had just spoken casually with him, and found that she looked just as confused as he did at the reaction of the other servants.

Fortunately, the suspense was short-lived, for a few seconds later the old man burst into tears and lurched forward, throwing his long arms around Raoul's neck.

"Oh, Master Raoul!" the man sobbed, thumping him on the back. "We never thought— why, it's actually you! You've returned! You're alive!"

It was as if floodgates had been thrown open. Suddenly the other servants ran forward in a wave and embraced him, tweaked his cheeks, patted his back, ruffled his hair. The drive was suddenly filled with an almost deafening myriad of ecstatic voices, prayers of thanks, and sobs.

"Master Raoul, it's so good to see you well!"

"Thank the good Lord, you survived! We knew it all along, Master!"

"Your brother will be overjoyed to see you, sir! Someone go fetch him! Marie, go fetch Master Philippe!"

"Oh, my poor boy, you're skin and bones! We'll send you straightaway to Brigitte and have her fix your favorite breakfast— two eggs and a stack of pancakes with syrup, no butter, and a big glass of orange juice with all the pulp strained from it. Mary and Joseph, I remember when you were just a little tadpole of four-"

"Step aside, Lydia, and let's get him to bed. The poor Master needs medicine and rest, and then food."

Unable to do anything but blink stupidly and smile, an overwhelmed Raoul was swept through the main doors, accompanied by a horde of chattering, fawning, eye-dabbing servants.

_Well, if I had my doubts before_, he mused, _they've been completely obliterated_. His mind reeled. All of this seemed so familiar. He knew these faces as if he had seen them in a fond dream once, but any time he grasped for a memory, it faded into nothingness. These people knew his favorite breakfast food; he did not. It was an indescribable feeling. The older ones had known him since birth; knew every scrape and cut he had received as a child, every present he had received at Christmas, every brash argument he had ever had with his brother. But Raoul could remember none of it.

They took him to his old bedroom. Ribbons and trophies lined the far wall, glinting in the sunlight coming through the curtained bay windows. His bed was draped in luxurious silks and cotton sheets— the softest he had ever felt… or could remember feeling. Three strong young servants lifted him from his wheelchair and laid him on the bed, then heaped him with blankets. The thick down pillows smelled of sandalwood and soap, a soothing combination that made his eyes droop.

"Sweet little Raoul," a middle aged, careworn woman cooed, smoothing his hair. "He never changes. Bless him, when he was just an infant he would fall asleep at my breast with that same expression on his darling face."

The mattress was so soft, the woman's cracked, calloused hand so comforting as it brushed through his hair. In that indefinable place between waking and sleeping, he thought he remembered everything. Memories of this woman, his nurse, rocking him to sleep when he was a small boy, singing to him in a low, husky voice…

But he fell asleep then, and knew nothing more.

--------------------------------

Angry, raised voices woke him from a dreamless sleep. He lifted his head from the soft pillows in alarm, then sunk back into them with a sigh. The speakers were outside his door. It was none of his concern.

Closer listening, however, soon told him otherwise. He didn't intend to eavesdrop, but the squabble was so noisy that he was sure the entire household could hear. After a moment he was able to identify the gruff, deep voice as that of the stooped old man who had greeted him at the door. The second, he could only guess, was his brother's.

"What kind of idiot do you take me for, Jean Claude? Five dealers from the underground market have already come to me in disguise with men who easily passed as my brother. They had the same facial structure, the same clothes, the same voice— one even had a replica of the de Chagny ring! It was a damned foolish idea for me to offer a reward for a dead man. Get him out of here. It is an insult to the memory of my brother to take this fraud into his room, Jean Claude, do you understand me? An insult!"

"My Lord, I would never question your judgment unless I was positive of my standing." His voice softened. "I realize how deeply his supposed death has affected you—"

"'_Supposed_?' How _dare_ you? I saw his corpse with my own eyes! I identified the body!"

Jean Claude's voice trembled increasingly with each word, but he managed not to be intimidated into submission. "And what if you were wrong, my Lord?"

Silence. Raoul held his breath, waiting. It seemed hours before Philippe finally answered coldly.

"You are so certain of the identity of this man that you are willing to stake your employment of fifty years?"

There was no audible reply. Holding his breath, Raoul waited to learn whether the old man had nodded or shaken his head.

"Very well."

Sharp, solid footsteps rapped just outside his door, drawing nearer. Paralyzed with fear, it took Raoul a few seconds to remember that he was supposed to be asleep. At the last possible moment, he buried his face in the pillows and shut his eyes.

He heard the bedroom door crash open, but managed not to flinch. Nevertheless, Philippe's voice rang out coldly, "If you are truly sleeping, that will be your deathbed. Everyone in Paris heard that dispute. Open your eyes and look at me."

He did.

Two sapphire blue eyes swam into view, followed by a strong nose and thin lips, a pointed chin, and a high forehead crowned with thick brown curls. Raoul gasped quietly. It was like looking into a projected reflection of himself in ten years' time. The Comte de Chagny reeked of nobility and opulence that picked at something in the back of Raoul's mind. He could almost remember this man.

Almost… but not quite.

Philippe did not seem to share the sentiment. He raised a manicured brow without breaking eye contact, and slowly, mockingly, began to clap. "Oh, bravo, bravo! Best I've seen yet. His agent is probably hiding in the shrubbery somewhere. We should give him a tip, for he's done quite the job with this one."

"My Lord, look at him," Jean Claude insisted. "This is your brother!"

"Oh, I'm sure it is!" the Comte chirped sarcastically. "See? The same eyes, the same face… And look! Bonus points for this stunning replica of the de Chagny ring!" He reached for Raoul's throat, and procured a thin, delicate silver chain from which dangled a stunning gold ring, engraved with the initials "RdC." Raoul stared at it in shock. He had not noticed the exquisite piece of jewelry hanging from his neck. It was incredibly light-weight, and the metal was warm from resting on his skin.

"You look surprised, dearest little brother," the Comte noted sarcastically, crossing his arms over his chest. "Didn't you accompany your agent to the smith to have it fitted to your hand?"

At last, Raoul could take no more. Sitting up in bed, he scowled at the Comte. "Listen, _you _were the one who wrote to my wife inviting us here, and now you insult me with an attack on my honesty? Would you like honesty, dear Comte? I do not know if I am your brother. I didn't even realize I was wearing this damned ring. I don't know anything about my past except what Emily has told me! I hoped you could inform me, but it seems the only thing I will hear from you are jibes and accusations!"

For a long moment, Philippe simply stared emotionlessly at him. Then quietly, to no one in particular, he said softly, "He even sounds like him."

"It _is_ him," Jean Claude interjected hopefully.

Another silence ensued before Philippe nodded solemnly and stepped closer. "We shall soon find out." He reached for the buttons on the front of Raoul's shirt, and Raoul instinctively pulled away.

"What are you doing?"

"When we were children, my brother and I stole two guns from our father's cabinet and rode our ponies out for a hunt at the back of the estate. We parted at a fork in the path. Twenty minutes later, I thought I saw a deer through the trees, and shot at it. His damned pony always looked like a deer to me. Fortunately, I only grazed my brother's ribs, so our parents never knew. We never told anyone about that accident."

Raoul studied him for a moment, then slowly unbuttoned his shirt. Everyone in the room was silent.

Barely visible among the purple, yellow, and green bruises ran a long, thin white scar.

"Now do you believe, my lord?" Jean Claude asked quietly.

Tears fogged the Comte's sapphire blue eyes. For a while he simply gazed incredulously at the clean, pale line. Then, slowly, he looked up at Raoul.

"It can't be. My brother is dead," Philippe whispered, his body shuddering with sobs. He stepped closer, staring squarely into the younger man's eyes. "Raoul?" he whimpered. Raoul nodded slowly. Philippe's strong arms suddenly enveloped his weak body, and for the first time in weeks, the youngest de Chagny boy felt at peace.

**A/N: -cuts you off before you can even say it- **

**Lemme guess: A WHOLE MONTH WITHOUT AN UPDATE, AND YOU GIVE US **_**RAOUL?**_

**-smiles- Review this chapter, tell me how much you hate me for it (or not!) and then move on to the next one. ;)**


	44. Murder

**A/N: I won't bog you down with another long author's note. Move along to E/C land! (If you didn't notice, this is the second half of a double update— if you haven't read chapter 43, go back and do that first).**

**Sorry if you originally read the botched up version of this chapter, with random question marks everywhere. The site is being weird. Please tell me if you find more! **

Erik shifted his weight a little, brushing a lock of damp hair away from Christine's mouth. The chestnut strands were coarse and wiry from the windstorm that had blown through Rome that morning.

If he closed his eyes, he could still see her standing on the curb outside the opera house, her eyes red from a combination of heartbreak and the dust carried on the vicious wind. Her beautiful hair had whipped out behind her head like a shimmering auburn banner as she clung to little Meg Giry, who had thrown an even more dramatic fit about their departure than Erik had been anticipating. Annoyed, impatient, and uncomfortable, he had lost his temper and barked at Christine that it was time to go. Rupert had met his eyes fearfully from a few meters behind the girls, and pulled the weeping Meg close. The best friends had not been able to even say a proper goodbye before Erik took Christine's arm and led her away. On the carriage ride to the train station, he had expected her to be cross with him, or at the very least give him a lecture about his short temper.

She had done neither. His sweet fiancée had simply buried her face in his shoulder and cried quietly, following him without question or protest. It was the worst torture he had ever had to endure: knowing that he had been unfair to her, but unsure of how to go about apologizing for it. He couldn't very well explain to her that they had to leave for Paris immediately so that he could eradicate the de Chagny threat from their lives forever.

Still, opposing voices raged in his head for hours, threatening a terrible migraine. He couldn't very well have left Christine in Rome while he returned to Paris, but bringing her with him was perhaps equally dangerous. Peril was their constant companion either way, and eventually Erik's possessive instincts had won out over the impulse to keep her as far away from the Vicomte as possible; with Christine at his side, he could at least keep a watchful eye on her.

Absently, Erik worked his bare fingers through Christine's curls, taking an odd sort of comfort from the motion. She was here, real, _human_— close enough to touch and kiss. Her physical presence firmly secured his life's ultimate goal in his mind and heart, and the lengths to which he was willing to go to attain it: he would keep her here, with him, beside him, until death ripped them apart at the seams. If that meant that the blood of the brothers de Chagny would stain the same hands that so lovingly stroked the Vicomtesse's hair, so be it.

He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in her curls. A thousand times over he apologized silently. Their love knew no boundaries— had she not said it perfectly herself? _In sleep he sang to me; in dreams he came___ Perhaps, then, she would hear and understand his unspoken apology in her dreams, since he did not have the courage to voice it aloud. God, he would do anything to keep her in that dream world: safe, blissful, innocent. She looked so vulnerable when she slept, like a child. She _was_ a child … he could not forget that. Her birthday was in four months— she would be eighteen.

And in another four, she would have a child of her own.

Erik's breath hitched in his chest. When had his hand shifted from her head to her belly? He stared at it in disbelief for a moment before yanking it away as if he'd been burned. The sudden movement caused Christine to stir, and she rubbed her eyes on his shoulder before looking up at him drowsily.

"Are we home yet, Erik?" she murmured, the tip of her chin resting on his shoulder.

Still reeling a bit, he shook his head and bent down to kiss her smooth cheek. "Soon, _mon ange_. Probably another hour or two."

Christine sighed and shifted in his arms, cuddling under his chin. She was quiet for a moment before asking sleepily, "Where will we go? Back to the Opéra?"

"Not just yet. We'll be staying at the Daro— Nadir's house temporarily, and then we'll see how things progress after that."

"What things?"

"Just unfinished business." His tone was final, but not unkind.

Christine fell silent, and her breathing grew deep and even. He thought she had drifted back to sleep, so he was surprised when she looked up at him and asked absently, "Does he know we're coming?" Her eyelids drooped, and he kissed each one gently.

"I wrote him before we left. Sleep now, love. I'll answer as many of your questions as I can once we're back in Paris."

Something told him she could not have resisted even if she tried. Within seconds her head bobbed, and she was truly asleep. First he was relieved, and then ashamed of his relief— under any other circumstances, he would have been content to talk with her for hours, but at the moment he needed to muse in solitude. It was nigh impossible to plot cold-blooded murder while looking into those sweet, trusting brown eyes.

Resting his temple on her wind-blown curls, Erik looked out the window at the passing scenery. The sun was just peeking over the horizon in an otherwise open, colorful sky. Ironic, that such a beautiful day would forever be marked in his mind as one of gory vengeance.

He didn't know when he drifted off. It was unsurprising, he supposed; he hadn't had a full night of sleep in four days. He dreamt of death. When he woke, he could still feel the hot blood on his fingers. Frowning, he pulled his black leather gloves from his pockets and slipped them on, despite the growing heat as the sun ascended in the sky.

Waiting was the worst part. If he had the de Chagny boy's neck between his hands at that very moment, it would have been simple enough: a quick jerk, and that would be the end of it. No more sleepless nights, no more rushed good-byes, no more frantic letters to and from the Daroga. Erik just wanted to get the deed over with and move on with his life. But the train seemed to be crawling just to spite him.

They reached the Montparnasse station just before noon. Christine jolted awake with the deafening train whistle, clamping her hands over her ears, and nicked Erik's ear with her thumbnail in the process. She didn't have time to utter a single word of apology before he was on his feet, suitcases in hand, ready to leap off the train.

"Stay here while I hire a carriage," he told her firmly before stepping out of their private compartment and onto the crowded platform. He half-ran down to the street, and quickly picked out an approaching hansom and hailed the driver. The smartly dressed, elderly man hardly had time to raise an eyebrow over Erik's black-clad figure and masked face before Erik tossed a purse of francs at him and shoved the luggage into the empty interior.

"To Rue Labrouste in Vaugirard, if you please. Wait here while I escort my lady down from the train. We are in somewhat of a hurry."

"Then you hired the right man, monsieur," the driver said, tipping his hat and staring jovially at the heavy coin purse. "I'll wait right here."

Erik nodded over his shoulder, for he was already making his way hastily back toward the train. Christine was waiting for him just inside the door of their compartment, her eyes sparkling excitedly. She took his arm and allowed herself to be ushered quickly down to the hansom, but he saw her eyes flickering over the familiar sights as they moved.

"It seems so strange to hear everyone speaking French!" she noted with a small laugh.

"Strange in a good way or a bad way?"

"Good," she affirmed with a knowing smile. "Stop worrying. I know you have your reasons for returning here. I trust you, Erik."

It was as if a block of cement had been lifted from his chest. He looked at her in surprise, but her gentle, understanding expression quickly melted his features into a smile. Erik was sure he had never loved her more than in that moment. He bent down to capture her lips tenderly between his, trying to pour the sentiment into the kiss. It seemed to work, for she sighed contentedly and beamed for the rest of the trip to Nadir's flat.

-----------------------------------------

Christine laid down for a nap at three, after they had lunched and shared mild, rather uninteresting conversation with the Persian. Erik was sure he had never seen a person sleep so much in his life— all thanks to the fetus sapping energy from her already fragile body, no doubt.

Which reminded him…

The second the door to the study slipped shut, he whirled about to face Nadir and clamped his hands around the Daroga's dark neck.

"What's all this for?" the Persian demanded with an unimpressed, petulant expression.

"I'm going to rip out your vocal chords so I never have to listen to your poisonous counsel again," Erik growled, shoving his friend down onto the couch.

Nadir blinked his dark emerald eyes, smoothing his tunic. "Pray tell, which piece of advice shall I be defending this afternoon?"

"We'll start with everything you've ever told me," he hissed, removing his mask only long enough to wipe away the film of sweat that had accumulated beneath it. With a heavy sigh, he sank into an armchair and held his head in his hands. For several minutes he sat motionless except for the faint rise and fall of his chest. He could feel Nadir's eyes on him, but was too lost in thought to care.

After a long while, the Persian cleared his throat pointedly. "I can't very well prove you wrong if I don't even know what position I am supposed to be arguing." In all honesty, Erik didn't want to argue; he didn't have the strength. Nothing Nadir said now could change the past.

However, the Daroga never failed to rouse his temper. "So, how far along is she?"

Erik stiffened, his head jerking up. A maddeningly smug, calm expression was pasted on Nadir's face. The urge to throttle him had never been so quite so compelling as in that moment.

"How the _hell_ does everyone know?"

"Ah, so someone else got to you before me." The Persian's grin only widened. "I believe congratulations are in order-"

Erik leapt to his feet, his hand flying to the coil of catgut at his belt. "Don't you dare mock me, Daroga!" he roared, whipping the Punjab at the floor with a loud crack. "This is all _your_ fault!"

Undeterred, Nadir cocked his head to one side, rubbing his chin. "How so? _I _certainly never made love to the Vicomtesse—"

"You told _me_ to! Goddamn it, Daroga, do you realize what I've done? _She's—carrying—my—child_. Not yours— no, your son was beautiful. But we— I've created another abhorrent creature like myself. Christ, I should just kill it now— slip some poison into her drink-"

"If you do," Nadir said, his voice as icy and menacing as Erik had ever heard it, "I will tell her everything. Leave that child alone. What's done is done."

Erik's throat and eyes burned with the threat of tears. Trying desperately to vent his rage and despair in a more manly fashion, he made a tight fist and slammed it against the nearest wall as hard as he could. Blood trickled from his shredded knuckles, but the pain paled in comparison to the torture raging inside of him. Hissing through his teeth, he sank to the floor, his knees curled up to his chest.

It took him several minutes to reign in his rampant emotions, but when he finally managed to bring his harsh breathing under control, he noticed the warm weight of Nadir's hand on his shoulder. Scowling, he wrenched away from his friend's touch. With endless patience, the Persian stepped back and spoke calmly.

"Very well, go ahead and bleed to death. Just be sure to leave a thousand francs in my name to replace this rug."

Flinching, Erik balled his ruined hand into a fist. "If I hadn't just gouged my hand, and I wasn't already going to spill blood today," he grumbled, "I'd beat you senseless."

At that, Nadir raised an eyebrow. "Whose blood? Other than your own, of course; you've done a fine job of that." A single glance seemed to get the picture across, for he pursed his lips and sighed. "After all this time, you're just going to kill him?"

"That's correct."

"You're mad. Every gendarme in Paris will be looking for you— and Christine. She's already suspected of murdering him the first time, you know."

"I'm very well aware," Erik sighed, bracing his good hand against the wall and using it to push himself to his feet. "We won't stay long. I've purchased a house on the coast, northwest of here. Everything's already been arranged."

Now it was the Persian's turn to sigh. "You always have a plan, Erik. Pretending to be an Angel of Music, strangling that pedophilic stagehand, burning down the opera house... I just hope I'm still around to sweep up the debris from this one."

"Oh, well pardon me; were you planning on dying in the near future?"

Nadir shook his head. "With all the stress your 'ingenious plans' place on me, Erik, I'm bound to explode one of these days. Is there any way I can talk you out of this one? The boy will not be a threat so long as his memory is lost."

"But his memory will no longer be lost if he resides in his brother's household. The Comte will tell him everything."

Evidently the Persian could not argue that point, for he abruptly changed the subject. "What about the young lady taking care of him? Will you kill her too?"

"I wasn't planning on it; you know I don't murder women. She'll have ample opportunities to find employment here. Paris is full of brothels."

"Don't be cruel."

"Who's being cruel? If she was able to hook the Comte de Chagny, she'll doubtless bed every nobleman in the county. It was a compliment."

Nadir groaned, putting his head in his hands. "Allah, have mercy." He raised his eyes wearily to stare at Erik, and shook his head. "This will all end in disaster."

Nodding grimly, Erik agreed, "In all probability. When you find my corpse rotting in a septic tank somewhere, I trust you'll wade through the sewage and drag it to the nearest mortuary, pay for a proper burial, get Christine out of the country, and put my hideous brat in boarding school, since you insist that it should live that long."

"Very funny. So what is my true role in this diabolical scheme of yours?"

Erik shrugged, hissing as he clenched and unclenched his bleeding hand. "Well, first off, you could fetch me a strong brandy-"

"Why do you even bother to ask? For the thousandth time, Moslems—do—not—drink!"

"-and then you'll need to be my second set of eyes and ears while I go purge our lives of the de Chagny plague. Watch over Christine. Keep her entertained and comfortable. She is not to leave this house under any circumstances."

The Daroga folded his arms over his chest. "Only if you swear on your life never to even _mention_ terminating the baby's life again. Do you understand me? It is offensive to a father who has already lost a precious child. If you want me to help you, put it out of your mind. Pretend it doesn't exist for as long as you can get away with it. Do what you must, but don't you dare lay a harmful finger on that child, or I will personally escort Christine to the de Chagny mansion and explain everything. That is a promise."

Erik nearly flinched at that unexpected blow. As an unwritten rule, neither of them ever mentioned little Reza's death, nor was Nadir the type to blackmail or dredge up old wounds, so he knew that this was a serious matter. Fine, then: he would do as the Daroga suggested and simply ignore the growing child's existence altogether. Hopefully Christine would miscarry again, and their problems would be solved.

The thought had not even fully formed before he began to loathe himself for it. Throat muscles clenched, he nodded his assent to Nadir's demands and swept out the door.

------------------------------------------

A hearty sigh of relief rushed past his lips at the sight of the de Chagny mansion. The drive was empty, which was a promising sign; it meant the Comte had not yet alerted the gendarmes or the papers to Raoul's return.

Nadir's little Arabian mare tossed her head excitedly, her sides heaving from the long ride. Much as Erik had wanted to check on César, he hadn't had the patience or the time to walk the six kilometers from Nadir's apartment to the Opéra Populaire. The Daroga's feisty, quick young horse was stabled only a block away, so he had "borrowed" her for the evening. The little mare had made the ten kilometer ride to the de Chagny estate in just under twenty minutes, and now her neck steamed with perspiration. Erik dismounted and rubbed her nose before leading her into the woods on the left side of the path. Shoots of new grass peeked up through the dead leaves of the forest floor, and he tied her reins to a tree trunk about fifty meters in from the road and left her to graze.

With his mount securely hidden, Erik wasted no more time in his pursuit of the Vicomte. The sun was still relatively high in the early summer sky, which made a concealed approach difficult if not impossible. A thick stone wall surrounded the mansion, the only opening to which was located at the front gates. After considering the situation for a moment, Erik decided to stick to the cover of the woods surrounding the estate. Punjab lasso in hand, he slipped through the twisted branches and undergrowth, snagging his clothing only twice. He followed the stone wall, watching carefully for any sign of a hidden back door; the last thing he needed was to be discovered by a gardener or game-keeper.

At last, he found what looked like a promising spot. Some of the brick had crumbled down the side of the wall facing him, creating solid footing to climb at least part of the way up. Elongated shadows signaled the coming of dusk, but it was not yet dark enough to cross the flat, open estate undetected. With a heavy sigh, Erik sat down on a bent tree trunk and waited.

And waited.

Unsurprisingly, he began to pace after a few minutes. Still, the sun seemed to be taking its precious time in setting. Desperate for something to take his mind off of the unbearably slow passage of time, he practiced garroting a nearby bush, imagining the Vicomte's head atop it. Not once did his lasso miss its target. Amusing as the activity was for the first few minutes, he quickly grew bored of the simple exercise and sat down again, only to jump to his feet and resume pacing a little while later.

"I hope you're finding this all very amusing," he grumbled to whatever divine being was watching him. He almost thought he heard a chuckle in the rustle of the leaves blowing in the breeze.

Finally, after what seemed like days, the grounds were finally cloaked in an adequate shield of darkness. Heaving a sigh of relief, Erik tested his weight on the crumbled wall, and finding it stable, began to climb. About halfway up, the stones began to slip and tumble beneath his feet. His features hardened into a concentrated glare, and Erik tossed the Punjab lasso upwards, snagging it on a large branch above his head. Tugging on it to make sure it would hold him, he used both the catgut rope and the wall to climb the rest of the way up.

Panting, with scraped knees and sweat stinging his eyes, he perched atop the stone wall, looking out at the estate. Not so much as a single tree offered cover from the edge of the estate to the front of the mansion. He would have to make a run for it, and pray that no one was out on the grounds at this hour.

Erik waited only long enough to catch his breath before slipping the Punjab lasso off of the tree trunk, tucking it into his belt, and leaping gracefully down from the wall. The second his feet hit the ground, he took off running. He didn't stop until he reached the garden, at which point he collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath. Light poured out from most windows of the house, but a few rooms were dark. For a few moments, Erik waited, his heart pounding, as he listened for any sign that anyone had seen him. The mansion's occupants were quiet. Internally, he sighed in relief. He had cleared the highest hurdle now; the murder itself would be simple enough.

Once he had his breathing under control, he rose smoothly to his feet and crept over to the nearest dark window. No one stirred inside. With trembling fingers, Erik pulled up on the window frame. It slid open, screeching quietly. He winced and stopped, listening. Fortunately, no one had heard him. Slowly, gently, he eased the window up the rest of the way and slipped inside.

He was inside an empty guest bedroom. For a few seconds he strained to hear the muffled sounds of people in rooms above and around him. It seemed that only a few servants were still up and about; the rest had retired to bed. Still recovering from his long sprint, Erik was content to merely stand there for the few minutes it took the remaining servants to wrap up their conversations and head to their separate quarters.

When the silence surrounding him became almost deafening, he dared to open the door a crack and peer outside. The hallway was dark. Sucking in a deep breath, he crept stealthily into the hall and made his way toward the grand staircase. Again he paused, listening intently. All it would take was one person to alert the entire household to his presence. Upstairs, at the far end of the hall, he could hear two muffled male voices.

He frowned. Separated by several rooms and a closed door, he could still pick out Raoul de Chagny's voice. The other, he could only guess, belonged to the Comte, Philippe.

Erik's feet were all but silent on the marble steps. His pupils were wide as a cat's; it was as if he had never left the cellars of the opera house. Bloodlust tightened his chest and sharpened his senses. Though his palms were sweating beneath his leather gloves, his grip on the Punjab lasso was firm. Barely breathing, he approached the bedroom from which came the brothers' voices. Silently, he extended his hand toward the doorknob. . .

Behind him, a door opened. His eyes flew wide. Biting his lip to suppress a curse, he flattened himself to the wall, motionless except for his watchful eyes.

But at the sight of the intruder, a deadly smirk twisted his face.

Emily stepped into the hallway, carrying a small white candle. She was dressed only in a thin, form-hugging robe, and her brown hair was loose, falling in gentle waves down her back. Had Erik's night-vision not been so keen, he might have mistaken her silhouette for that of Christine.

By a stroke of luck, she turned in the opposite direction, heading for a closed doorway on the opposite end of the hall. Erik waited until she had disappeared into the other room before following her. He pressed his ear to the door, and heard only the sounds of her bare feet padding on the ground and the rustle of her robe. She was alone.

His smirk widened. In one swift movement he opened the door, slipped inside, and shut it behind him with a firm click.

Emily gasped, whirling about to face him. The robe was in a heap at her feet; she stood naked before him, her enticing form bathed in blue moonlight. She seemed frozen in place, for she made no move to cover herself. Erik stared unflinchingly, and slowly advanced towards her.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle Neilson," he said with a small bow.

"Shit," Emily cursed, finally remembering herself and fumbling to put the robe back on. "Erik, what the bloody fucking 'ell are you doing here?"

Erik raised an eyebrow at her crass language, but made no mention of it. "I should ask you the same thing."

Emily covered her blushing cheeks with her palms, shaking her head. "Earning a living. But _you're _supposed to be in Rome. I thought we 'ad a deal."

"We did." There was no longer any trace of humor in Erik's expression or tone. "Until you decided to bed Raoul's brother."

Silence. Emily's mouth opened and closed twice before she managed to squeak, "What're you _talking_ about? I just made that up so tha' Philippe would-"

"Pay for Raoul's medical care," Erik finished monotonously. "Yes, so I gathered." He took another menacing step towards her. "But you have not yet learned, it seems, that Fate is a cruel, vindictive little prankster."

For a moment, Emily simply eyed him. "You mean to tell me tha' Philippe is actually Raoul's brother?" She laughed disdainfully. "Wha' kind of idiot do you take me for?"

"The kind of idiot that is about to drown in a mess of misunderstandings and coincidence. You see, everyone here was under the impression that the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny was killed in a shipwreck a few months ago. His wife, Christine, disappeared a week later. But now it turns out that Raoul is very much alive, although he seems to have lost his memory except for the stories— lies —you have fed him. Do you understand what I am telling you, Emily?"

She stared at him, fear dawning slowly in her dark eyes. "You don't  you don't think Philippe will suspect me of killing 'er?"

"And perhaps drugging the Vicomte? There are narcotics available in many a pharmacy that will do terrible things to the human mind. Memory loss is one of the more humane symptoms. It's entirely plausible that the Comte will accuse you of several crimes punishable by death." Emily's breathing had grown ragged, tears pooling in her wide brown eyes.

"What can I do?" she whispered. "I'm not— I didn't do anything! I jus' tried to save 'im, tha's all!"

Erik grabbed her shoulders roughly. "Calm down. Hysterics will only paralyze you further. Why do you think I'm here?"

Her dark, teary eyes met his, and she sniffled. "You-you're going to 'elp me?"

The smirk returned to Erik's lips. "No. You're going to help me."

-----------------------------------

The corpse swayed faintly in the breeze, his blue eyes glazed and empty, his mouth still hanging slightly open as if in shock. The murder had been brilliantly staged; Emily had performed with the skill of a trained actress, luring de Chagny to the bed beside which Erik had been hiding. She pinned the eager young man to the mattress, and Erik had pounced, snagging the Punjab lasso around de Chagny's neck before he had time to gasp. A quick, deft jerk, and the struggle was over before it began.

Emily had helped him tear up the fine bed sheet and twist it into a believable, makeshift noose. They had tied one end securely around the corpse's neck and the other to the balcony railing, and dropped the carcass with a nauseating crack. Emily threw up while Erik beamed.

It was a good compromise, after all. At Emily's pleading, he had agreed to spare Raoul's life— for now, at least— and take Philippe's in his place. By a rare stroke of luck, the Comte had not had the chance to explain the past few months' events to his little brother yet, and Erik had made sure that he would never get the chance. When Emily entered the bedroom down the hall to pull Philippe aside for "a quick word," the brothers had only been reunited for a matter of minutes. Evidently, Emily had kept the Comte _entertained_ all day, and oblivious to his brother's presence. Just before Erik had entered, the butler, Jean Claude, had interrupted their umpteenth romp of the day to ask that Philippe come greet his brother. The Comte had told Emily to go to wash up and meet him back in his chamber in ten minutes. She had heard Jean Claude and Philippe arguing, a door slam, and then they were quiet, and she had figured it was safe to go out in the hall. A few seconds later, Erik had walked in. That was all she knew, or chose to share with Erik.

And so, he had agreed to let Raoul live, despite every instinct that screamed at him to ignore the British whore's pleading and just be done with it. Somehow, that sly little snake of a woman had managed to convince him that she would be able to handle matters now that the Comte had "committed suicide." She would pretend to be horrified and shocked when the servants found him, and she would comfort Raoul in his time of loss. As soon as Philippe was laid in the family plot, she would have Raoul gather his share of the de Chagny inheritance and purchase a house in the country (far, far away from Perros-Guirec, she promised). She would tell the servants that Raoul needed to get away from the mansion because he was so devastated by his brother's loss, and whisk her "husband" off to their new home, convincing him to stay there "for his health."

Erik had to admit, the woman could think on her feet. They were caught at an impasse, both able to blackmail one another all the way to the guillotine; they had no option but to compromise. He agreed to spare Raoul's life only on the condition that Emily would continue to write to him weekly with detailed accounts of what was going on. She agreed to keep quiet about Philippe's murder so long as Erik kept Christine far away from her. As long as they both kept their side of the bargain, everything would be fine.

But still, it was a terrible, terrible risk. As Erik climbed the crumbled wall and trudged through the forest, mounted Nadir's horse and rode back to Christine, a dark sense of foreboding built slowly in his chest, as if a drop of blood leaked from his heart with every heartbeat. A single droplet was no threat at all, but with time…

He washed his hands until the flesh was red and raw. It was nearly two in the morning by the time he laid down next to Christine, holding her as if she would disappear if he let go. Try as he might to relax and take comfort in the warmth of her body pressed to his, he lay awake all night, trembling and fitful. Perhaps he was going mad, for he heard an echo from hours ago as loudly and clearly as if Nadir had spoken directly into his ear:

_Allah, have mercy. This will all end in disaster._

**A/N: … I think I've been reading too many Shakespearian tragedies. Lol.**

**Danielle luffs Nadir! –squeals- It's so nice to have him back in the story— he's probably my favorite character to write… tied with Madame Giry, who will make a reappearance sometime later in the story. :)**

**So yeah, again, sorry for that long updateless stretch, guys. This is just the beginning of a sticky situation… now all the dominos will start to fall. –claps hands gleefully- Mwahaha! Chaos and destruction are FUN! –devil horns-**


	45. Bonding

**A/N: Three words: I. Love. JoAnn. :D –blows her 525, 600 kisses- (And –giggles with people who get the "Rent" reference-)**

**I would dedicate this chapter to her, but I'm sure she'd rather have an E/C, so we'll wait 'til next time.**

**But seriously, ALL of you are so wonderful, I could just cry. All of the support I've gotten for this story just blows me away. Don't ever believe that I'd abandon this story; A. I don't have the heart or the motive, and B. Like 400 of you would attack me, tie me to my computer chair, and make me type. LOL. It's not an option. I love "Evergreen" to itty bitty pieces, but real life has forced it (and my other stories) to the back burner lately. I really am sorry, but I must reiterate that I WILL NEVER ABANDON THIS STORY. Everevereverevereverevereverevereverevereverever!**

She felt hollow… as empty as the blue eyes staring out from Philippe de Chagny's lifeless face. It was strange— the nightmares that inevitably plagued her at night were not of the sickening crack as his bones broke beneath Erik's lasso; not of the fruitless sucking motion his lips made as he gasped for air; not of the way he thrashed violently seconds before going limp as a rag doll.

It was his eyes that plagued her. Those beautiful sapphire eyes… _Raoul's_ eyes.

Her lifeboat, the one scrap of hope she could cling to as she drowned in self-inflicted guilt and sorrow, was that it was _not_ Raoul's eyes that had been sapped of life, as Erik had planned. The blood of one of the de Chagnys was destined to stain the masked man's hands, and all she could do was be grateful that it was not her beloved's. She had to think of Philippe as an unwitting scapegoat; to salvage her own conscience Emily forced herself to believe that had the elder brother known that one of them must die, he would have sacrificed himself anyway. She remembered the pride beneath the drunken slur of Philippe's voice as he had spoken to her of his brother, though she had not known at the time that he was speaking about the man she loved.

_When my sisters were taken by consumption, I became fiercely protective of my brother. He was such a good boy… attentive, respectful, polite. And Christ, was he intelligent… _

Yes, she concluded sadly as she watched four strong men lower the Comte de Chagny's coffin into the family plot, Philippe would have gladly died for his brother's sake.

For the first time since the murder, tears flooded Emily's wide brown eyes. Raoul's palm was limp and clammy in her right hand, his face pallid and sunken. Each of his shallow breaths sounded like the arid rattle of bones; he was getting worse. His eyes were dry and emotionless as he watched the priest sprinkle a handful of dirt on top of Philippe's coffin, and Emily's spilled over as if to compensate.

Unable to bear looking at her beloved any longer, she shifted her gaze down to the casket. Gravediggers had taken over the duty of filling the grave, heaping large shovelfuls of rich earth into the rectangular hole. Emily pursed her lips to smother a sob, and desperately offered an unvoiced promise to the dead man before he disappeared into the ground forever.

_Your sacrifice will not be in vain, Philippe! _

Suddenly, a memory dawned on her… another clip of the monologue Philippe had grumbled at her on the night they first met.

_I had such high hopes for him. He could have had any woman in France. I'm sure Father was rolling in his grave when he fell in love with a bloody opera star. We became the laughingstock of Paris. I tried to tell him that our reputation was all we had left, but he wouldn't hear of it. He ran off and married her, and a month later he was dead._

Tears of undirected loathing scalded her cheeks, and she did not bother to wipe them away. With no outlet for her anger and despair, and the "bloody opera star" fresh in her mind, it was almost too easy to transfer all of the outrage pent up inside of her to Raoul's mysterious wife… the lover of that vile, masked murderer…

_Christine._

_Yes, _she hissed internally, the floodgates of sanity beginning to burst at their seams. _Christine… this is all her fault! How many nights have I heard Raoul moaning her name as he thrashed in a nightmare? She drove him away… he must have been escaping to London when the boat sank. She nearly killed him… and then I saved him… me… me! His life is mine; I saved him. I brought him back to his brother, let him see Philippe one last time. Me! And where is the Vicomtesse Christine now? Ran away, of course… guilty as sin. Yes… yes, now I understand! Was it not HER lover who came with the intention of killing Raoul— once before, in Perros, and now in Paris? I saved Raoul both times. She must have told Erik terrible lies in order to convince him to assassinate my poor love… yes, yes, that must be it! TWICE I have saved my poor dear Raoul from that murderous traitor, Christine! Now I will make sure she never finds us again!_

_Oh, Philippe, God rest your precious soul, poor darling… the sacrificial lamb of your sister-in-law's bloodlust! I swear to you, I will protect your brother from that monster, that demon in an angel's robes!_

Her eyes were dry by the time her sanity snapped like a wire pulled too tight. The grave was filled, the handkerchiefs soaked, and hors d'oeuvres set out on lace-covered tables with fine silverware and pressed silk napkins. The guests ate and chatted in soft voices, recalling fond memories of the oldest de Chagny boy. To Emily's surprise, none of the esteemed guests took any notice of his empty-eyed, wheelchair-bound brother. Sorrow and illness had drained any recognizable air from Raoul, it seemed. All Emily had ever known was this sick, pitiful scrap of a man, and it was difficult for her to imagine him as a strong, charming politician with whom all of France was familiar. Likewise, it must have been impossible for these elitist aristocrats to make the connection between this withered, sunken young man and the Vicomte they had known and loved.

In a vain way, Emily was glad that no one recognized him. Neither she nor Raoul were the slightest bit hungry, so she enlisted an ashen-faced maid named Colette to help her wheel him back up to the house. They made the trip in silence, save the occasional whimper or sniffle from the maid.

Emily couldn't look at Raoul; every time she did, pain blitzed through her heart like a fork of lightning. If only he had wept, cursed, thrown a tantrum… _anything_ to prove that something was still going on behind those glassy, emotionless blue eyes. God damn it, she had assisted in Philippe's murder to ensure that Raoul remained living; surely the world was not so cruel as to throw it back in her face by ripping the younger de Chagny boy away from her as well? In this state, he had might as _well_ be dead— he showed no physical signs to the contrary except for the sickly wheeze of his chest. If he did not snap out of this half-conscious trance soon, even that would stop, and she would be forced to watch him laid in the empty patch beside his brother.

"On three, then, Madame," Colette, murmured at the foot of the main staircase, slinging one of Raoul's arms over her shoulder as Emily did likewise. "One, two, three!" Together, the women lifted him into a sling made with their arms, and proceeded to climb the stairs slowly. They had to stop halfway up and lean against the banister for support while they caught their breath, but after a few short moments they resumed their ascent. By the time they got into Raoul's bedroom they were both panting like dogs in July, their limbs burning with the extra burden, their foreheads beaded with sweat. They did not so much lay the ill Vicomte on the bed as drop him like a sack of flour. Long before Colette recovered, however, Emily was busy helping him into a comfortable position, removing his shoes, brushing the hair from his face, and fluffing the pillows behind his back.

"You alrigh', darling?" she prompted, knowing he wouldn't answer. "Sorry 'bout that… I ain't got a strand of muscle on me, jus' skin 'n' bones, really. Terribly clumsy, always 'ave been."

She tried not to show her surprise when Raoul blinked his distant blue eyes slowly and turned to face Colette. "I did not catch your name, Mademoiselle."

The maid, on the other hand, was not so talented an actress. Her unkempt eyebrows shot up, and she took a step back as if the bed itself had struck up a conversation with her. "Master Raoul, I didn't know you could… that you were… I mean, I knew you were… but… I…" Her ashen cheeks flushed, which made the skin turn the color of cat vomit. "Colette," she managed finally. "Colette Fournier, at your service, my lord."

He inclined his head slightly. "Your assistance is greatly appreciated, but no longer necessary. I wish to speak with my wife, alone. Please inform the other servants that I do not want to be disturbed this afternoon. If I need anything, I will send Emily to fetch one of you."

After a hesitant glance at Emily, the maid ducked her head submissively and exited the room with haste. The door's click echoed off of the polished wooden floors, making Emily flinch for a reason she didn't quite understand.

An oppressive silence fell over the room, suffocating in its intensity. For the longest time she stood perfectly still, her gaze fixed on a wrinkle in the duster of Raoul's bed.

It seemed that an eternity crawled by before Raoul spoke in a quiet, melancholy voice.

"I cannot stay here, Emily." After a few seconds she dared to glance at him. She found his eyes trained on her, and felt a sob rise in her throat at the depth of the agony contained in those sapphire pools.

"I understand," she managed, pursing her lips to keep them still.

Raoul leaned his head back against the bed frame wearily, his pained eyes slipping shut. "Jean Claude spoke of a summer house in the country, thirty kilometers south of here. He offered to send servants down to prepare the cottage, if we so desire."

Had her heart not been laden with guilt, she would have whooped with glee. Her plans were all falling into place, and she hadn't even done anything! A summer home was the perfect solution to the predicament she had gotten herself into; she had promised that murderous bastard, Erik, that she would get Raoul out of Paris, and before she could even look into finding decent lodging, an unwitting servant had brought to light the convenient existence of the family's furnished, staffed, secluded country cottage. It was almost _too_ perfect.

Slowly, she sat down at the foot of the bed. Without blinking or breaking eye contact, she said, "My opinion doesn't matter; I would follow you anywhere, Raoul. The important question is whether or not this is wha' _you_ want."

Raoul nodded solemnly. "Our options are few. In this condition, I don't believe I'll be able to travel back to England. The few hours it will take to ride down to the cottage will be excruciating enough as it is."

"So you've made up your mind, then."

He twisted his lips, hesitating. "I suppose I have… if you approve, that is. I realize that you've suffered through quite an ordeal already to bring me back here."

"It was no chore," said Emily softly. "And my sufferin' is nothin' compared to the Hell you're going through, love."

Raoul snorted quietly and then fell silent. No sound disturbed the bedroom for several minutes, and after a while Emily presumed him to be asleep. She rose to her feet as softly as she could, but before she was halfway across the room Raoul's voice stopped her in her tracks.

"Have you and I never shared a bed?"

A surge of blood rushed to Emily's head, and she spun to face him with a stunned look on her face. "Pardon me?"

He eyed her coolly, and swallowed. "It was just a question; please don't take offense. I realize that I am ill and you wish to avoid whatever affliction plagues me, but I was merely wondering… before the… the accident… did we… were we…?" He waved his fingers in a circular motion and blushed faintly as words failed him.

An insuppressible smile touched the corners of Emily's lips, and she began to meander slowly back to his side. "First've all, if I was gonna catch whatever godfersakin' disease you've got, I would 'ave caught it weeks ago." Her smile broadened, and then faded. "I only stayed away because I thought tha's what you wanted."

Raoul's blue eyes seemed to be staring right through her, piercing down to her very heart. He wet his lips and nodded after a moment, without ever breaking eye contact, and admitted quietly, "I did, at first. Forgive me for those first few days, Em. You did nothing to deserve my doubt. I just—"

"There's no need to apologize," said Emily kindly, her insides warm and tingly from hearing him address her by a nickname. "You were very sick. You still are." Throwing caution to the wind, she bent down and kissed his forehead. "And you need your rest."

He was relentless. "You didn't answer my question."

Now it was Emily's turn to blush. With an embarrassed smile and a sigh, she nodded. "Yes, we shared a bed." His stare was unnerving; she could have sworn he could detect her lie, though he showed no sign of it. Guilt gnawed at her insides, but she was too lost in those ocean blue eyes to care.

Raoul tilted his head to one side. "May I ask another question?"

"You jus' did." They both laughed quietly. "But be my guest."

"Will you stay with me tonight?"

It was such a simple request, and God knew she had heard it enough times to last her four lifetimes. Still, the earnest look in his eyes brought a film of tears to hers. Biting her lip to keep them at bay, she nodded.

"Let me jus' change into a nightshift, then," she said, backing toward the door. It wasn't until she was in the hallway, headed for her room with a giddy smile on her face, that she realized it wasn't yet four in the afternoon.

Her smile broadened into a radiant beam. Raoul wanted her next to him, sharing a bed with him, not only all night, but all day as well! She would have skipped to her quarters, but as she passed the closed door to the room that had been Philippe's just a few days ago, an invisible lid was clamped down on her happiness. How quickly she had managed to forget his sacrifice. She felt silly afterwards, but as she passed the room she nodded sagely at it, silently reiterating her vow from earlier that day.

But even thoughts of those vile murderers Erik and Christine could not put a complete damper on her elation. Once she was in her room she wasted no time at all in stripping away all of her clothes but her most basic undergarments. She whipped on a thin nightgown with a flattering neckline and turned to inspect herself in the mirror.

Her cheeks were a bright, healthy pink— partially from all the crying she had done earlier that day. After scrunching her rebellious hair with fingers wetted from the pitcher by her bedside, her chestnut tresses began to take on some semblance of their natural curl. She bit her lips to draw blood into them, adjusted her bosom, smoothed her nightshift, and fixed her posture, and with one last girlish squeal at her reflection, stepped back out into the hallway with all the poise of a true Viscountess.

Emily's smugness was short-lived, however; as she approached the bedroom, she heard muffled coughs, as if Raoul were smothering his face in a pillow to keep her from overhearing. Concern immediately drowned out any other emotion, and when she stepped into the room it was with an air of maternal insistence.

"You need to take the medicine the doctor gave you," she said firmly, shutting the door behind her. "And drink some water."

Raoul seemed not to have heard her, though; his gaze had finally left her eyes, settling instead on her breasts. She didn't know whether to be exasperated or flattered, and decided on an odd combination of the two. With a roll of her eyes, she stormed over to his bedside and took a small bottle from the end table, tipping two powdery white pills into her palm. She turned to drop them into Raoul's hand, but purposely allowed one of the tablets to fall to the floor.

"Whoops," she said, bending down a little longer than necessary, pretending to not be able to see the little pill. It was the oldest trick in the book, but it never failed. When she righted herself and deposited the pill successfully in Raoul's hand, she could see the gleam in his eyes. It took him a moment to collect himself, and his cheeks flushed a light pink as he averted his gaze entirely too innocently, swallowing his medicine. Emily smiled knowingly at him as she wound over to the other side of the bed and slipped under the pile of blankets.

To say the least, the first few minutes were a bit awkward. Raoul cleared his throat; Emily twisted a corner of the comforter in her fingers and bit on a nail; neither of them spoke or looked at one another.

Finally, she could stand it no longer; Emily blurted the first thing that came to mind:

"I 'ate awkward silences."

Raoul looked over at her in surprise, then grinned. "So do I. What shall we talk about?"

"If I knew, then we wouldn't've 'ad an awkward silence in the first place."

His handsome face twisted in thought, and then lit up. "Well, you know everything about me, obviously, but with this damned amnesia, I suppose I need a bit of reminding about you."

Emily shifted uncomfortably. She was used to listening to men talk up a storm about themselves, but it was very rare indeed that she was asked anything besides her name and hourly rate. Still, she supposed it was better than sitting in unbearable silence.

"What d'you want to know?" She tried to keep the edge out of her tone, and mostly succeeded. God, she was so sick of lying…

Raoul shrugged. "Anything. Your favorite color, favorite food… childhood memories. I want to know it all."

She deflated in relief. They were simple questions, and she didn't have to lie about any of them! Pursing her lips and tilting her head to one side, she answered thoughtfully, "Yellow. Not old grimy yellow, like somethin's rotting… but bright yellow. Gold, maybe." She laughed at herself. "Never really thought about it before." After a brief pause, she insisted, "You answer too; it's not much've a conversation if I'm doin' all the talkin'."

Raoul thought for a minute, then answered, "Brown." With a twinkle in his eye, he continued jestingly, "Not horseshit brown, mind you… chestnut brown. The color of strong coffee." His expression softened, and he reached up a hand to touch her hair. "The color of your hair and eyes. It's comforting— one of the few things I remember from before the accident."

It was all she could do not to shiver at his gentle touch. He made no move to withdraw his hand from her hair, so she sidled a bit closer to him and sighed in pleasure as he stroked his fingers through her curls.

"So, gold… my wife's favorite color is gold," he said softly, more to himself, she suspected, than to her. "Second question: your favorite food?"

Tentatively, Emily rested her head on his shoulder. When he showed no sign of displeasure, her smile broadened. "Stuffed lobster."

He made a sound of mild surprise, then laughed. "Sounds delicious. My, my, you have quite the expensive tastes, my dear. Gold and stuffed lobster… perhaps a bottle of fine white wine and imported Belgian truffles for dessert?"

Emily blushed, but played along. "Oh, 'eavens no, darling; make it _champagne_… with diamonds in the glass." They laughed together, and she was positive she had never heard anything more beautiful in her life.

"Your turn!" she insisted once their laughter had died down.

"Well, who can beat stuffed lobster? I might have to concur."

"Tha's cheatin'!"

"Agreeing with you is cheating?"

She rolled her eyes, and without thinking slapped him playfully on the chest. Raoul sucked in a wheezing gasp and doubled over, and Emily let out a little scream of self-disgust.

"Darling, are you alright? Oh, shit, oh bloody 'ell, I'm so sorry, I completely forgot! Raoul, say something!"

His face was bright red and tears shone in his eyes. When his shoulders started jerking erratically, Emily's heart leapt into her throat, and she felt ready and willing to tie a bed sheet around _her_ neck and jump from the balcony.

It took her nearly two minutes of breathless cussing and floods of tears to realize that he was laughing.

"Raoul!" she shrieked, picking up a pillow and whacking it on his shaking back. "You scared me to death! I though' I 'ad seriously 'urt you!"

"I know!" he hooted, wiping his streaming eyes. "Where did you learn how to _curse_ like that?"

"Oh God." Emily moaned and slumped back against the pillows, her heart still pounding. "Jesus bloody Christ, Raoul, you are going to regret that li'l ploy."

"Oh, I doubtless will. But for the moment, let me revel in my triumph."

She shook her head. "You certainly don't act like a critically ill man."

"I don't feel like one tonight." Suddenly his ocean blue eyes calmed, and the twinkle died out. "Something changed within me today, Emily. Seeing my brother's funeral… his corpse…" An involuntary shudder gripped him for a moment, and she reached out to stroke his back reassuringly. He looked her square in the eye, and said with utter conviction, "I realized how much I have to lose." Emily's heart did pirouettes as he took her hand in his and squeezed it gently. "I refuse to die, Em. I won't leave you here alone. I promise."

She could not have stopped herself from kissing him if all the demons in Hell had ascended with blazing torches and burning eyes to drag her down to the fiery depths. A moan rose in her throat as Raoul's lips molded to fit hers, probing and tasting. Her hands snaked around his neck and pulled him close, but she was mindful now of his delicate condition— which was a great deal more than he was willing to admit. Raoul was ready and eager to push forward with the afternoon's activities, but it was ironically Emily who held him back, maintaining a slow but firm rhythm to their mouths' explorations.

"_Je te veux_," he whispered against her mouth, lapsing into his native French. "_Je t'adore tellement_."

Emily was undone. She sighed contentedly and grinned, murmuring between kisses, "I 'ave no idea what you jus' said, but for God's sake, don't stop…"

More due to her own insistence than any lack of eagerness on Raoul's part, their union was almost painfully gentle, and the most beautiful, blissful moment of Emily's life. She had had enough sex in the past ten years for five lifetimes, but this was not just sex… for the first time in her life, she made love to a man, and enjoyed every second of it.

When it was over they lay together in a tangle of limbs, though Emily was adamant that Raoul stay beneath all five layers of blankets, no matter how hot he claimed to be. Warm and elated and more comfortable than she could ever recall being, she fell asleep within minutes, all thoughts of murder and treachery and death completely expelled from her conscious mind.

But her subconscious, it turned out, still had a bone to pick with Erik Guerrier and Christine de Chagny.

**A/N: Again, Erik's last name is compliments of the illustrious Wandering Child. –bows at her feet-**

**So you might have noticed that I WAY toned down the fluff. Figured that a few hundred Raoul haters would run after me with pitchforks if I went overboard. Still, at least it's not Raoul and CHRISTINE, right? ;)**

**You are all so very patient with me, and I can't thank you enough. School is FINALLY over now-- yay for graduates of the class of '06! Remember LAST summer, when I was updating this story every other day? Well, I can't promise that much, but I know I'll be punching these chappies out a whole hell of a lot quicker than once a month. I'm gonna go work on my next chapter RIGHT NOW (E/C, I swear!), so I'll get it up sometime in the next few days. Love you all! **


	46. Home

**A/N: So it turns out that being a nanny for two little girls is a lot more exhausting than it looks! Usually when I get home from work (at like 6) I'm beat, so most of my writing is done during the weekends. It's taking a bit longer than I'd like to finish a chapter, but c'est la vie, I suppose. Thanks, as always, for your patience. :)**

"Well?"

Erik glowered out of the corner of his eye as he brushed past the Persian and slid onto the piano bench. His fingers twitched, hovering above the keys as he deliberated which song to inflict upon the poor instrument. Something long and loud… something to make his fingers burn and the walls tremble…

Flexing and cracking his joints, he hunched over and prepared to explode into Chopin's Polonaise in A flat Major. The Daroga's satisfied murmur of "You didn't do it, then" went unheeded beneath the ascending chromatic notes of the introduction, but when Christine padded almost inaudibly into the parlor a few seconds later—two fingers pressed to each temple—Erik immediately spun to face her, the piano abandoned mid-chord. He was at her side in seconds, frowning as he studied her twisted features.

"I woke you," he murmured apologetically, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

Christine shook her head. "I've been awake for hours." The crease between her brows deepened. "Actually, I don't believe I slept at all."

The Persian slid back into view, and Erik nearly jumped; he had almost forgotten the meddling Daroga's presence. Nadir wrapped a supportive arm around Christine's shoulder and ushered her toward the kitchen. "A migraine, by the look on your face." He pursed his lips sympathetically. "You were also sick to your stomach several times in the early hours of the morning."

Christine looked at him in surprise, and he answered smoothly, "It appears _none_ of us got very much rest last night." Erik clenched and unclenched his fists, glaring venomously at his old friend. Fortunately, Christine didn't seem to take the Daroga's hint— perhaps she was too ill to care. Erik slipped between the two with a sharp side look at Nadir, swiftly regaining the upper hand. This time, the Persian took the hint, lowering his eyes with a tiny, self-satisfied smile.

"Well, we shan't disturb your nighttime rituals any longer, Daroga." Erik shifted his attention back to Christine and squeezed her shoulders gently. "After breakfast, if you're feeling up to it, we'll take a hansom to the opera. You'll undoubtedly rest better in the cellars, where it's cool and dark."

Both Nadir and Christine seemed surprised by the suggestion. Frowning slightly, Christine opened her mouth to ask a question, but her cheeks suddenly took on a sickly green tint, and she wheeled around and raced for the nearest chamber pot. The two men flinched as the sounds of her vomiting spell drifted down the hall, and they turned in unison to sit in the living room and allow her some privacy.

"Poor girl. This is one of the worst cases of morning sickness I've ever seen," Nadir murmured once they were out of earshot. "Do you have anything at home to ease her symptoms?"

Erik's glare hardened. "It's not exactly a malady I treated often in the past."

"That's a 'no?'"

"That's a 'mind your own business.'"

The Persian nodded curtly. "Oh, good. Because I was going to suggest ginger wrapped in raspberry leaves; Rookheeya swore it was Allah's greatest gift to expectant mothers-"

Erik's hand moved faster than his brain. In a flash of moving flesh, he had Nadir's jaw pinched painfully between his strong fingers. "Bring it up again, Daroga, and just see what happens."

Scowling, the Persian shoved him away and rubbed his chin. "Oh yes, that's exactly what you need. Break my jaw, Erik, and let Christine witness your violent tendencies firsthand." When Erik was silent, he pushed on unnecessarily, "And then, of course, she can ponder why on earth you would want to do such a thing… which would lead her to wonder why you would want me silenced, which would—"

Erik buried his head in his hands. His temples were throbbing, and each taunting word that left Nadir's lips only made the pain sharpen. The aftermath of murder was starting to set in; he was shaky, lightheaded, and impulsively violent. The very last thing he needed was to be reminded of the presence of the monstrous spawn he had planted in Christine's womb: another reason to hate himself, added to a growing list. All he wanted at the moment was music, a strong brandy, and time to think. The sooner they got to the opera house, the better.

"—which would lead her to believe that you lied to her, or at least omitted the fact that you knew she was carrying your child, which would drive her back into the arms of the man you _didn't_ kill last night, judging by the look on your face." Nadir's lips curled in a smug grin. Deciding to wipe the smirk off of the Daroga's face with words instead of fists, Erik raised his eyebrows in mock-surprise.

"Oh I didn't, did I?"

The Persian rolled his eyes. "You're sober. If you'd killed your arch enemy, you would have taken to a bottle of vodka hours ago."

Erik's voice was a cold hiss. "De Chagny is dead. Read the morning paper and see for yourself."

The certainty fled Nadir's green eyes, replaced with dread. "You… you didn't." Erik rose to his feet, a mask of nonchalance fixed on his visible features. "Erik?"

"The news will break with dawn, by which point Christine and I will be nestled five floors below the opera house, medicated and drunk, respectively." There was an edge to Erik's tone, and he made no attempt to curb it. "Come to think of it, perhaps it wouldn't be the wisest idea to hire a taxi." He tapped his mask in mock-thoughtfulness. "There aren't too many masked murderers running about Paris these days with a wanted Vicomtesse, hmm? Well, I suppose I'll just have to take your mare again—excellent horse. You don't mind, of course. Ah, Christine!" Fortunately, his fiancée chose that moment to re-enter the room, looking dazed and miserable. The pitiful look on her face sobered him, dragging him down from his lofty, sarcastic rant like an anchor.

"On second thought," she mumbled as he took her into his arms, "Can we skip breakfast and just go back home?"

"Of course." In one swift, practiced movement he swept her off her feet and carried her into the hall. He paused and tilted his head in a gesture for Nadir to snap out of his trance and open the door. It took the Persian a moment to recover, but as he strode over to finish his duty as host, his jade eyes hardened almost imperceptibly. The Daroga's voice was kindly as he bade Christine farewell, but his scornful, stunned gaze never left Erik's face.

"Let us pray that you sleep better in your own bedroom than you have in my study, _Vicomtesse_." He stressed the title, his eyes crackling meaningfully at Erik. Christine looked confused for a moment, then smiled sweetly as the Persian took her hand and kissed it. "Though, of course, you are always most welcome here."

"Thank you, Monsieur Khan," she said, appreciation shining in her eyes. "Twice now, you have cared for me when I was dreadfully ill. Hopefully next time we meet, I will be a bit less troublesome to you."

"You are no trouble at all, my dear. Quite the contrary; you are wonderful company." The corner of the Daroga's lip twitched downward as he returned his full attention to Erik. "Well, well, is this not déjà vu, old friend? I'm beginning to wonder if you're using me. It seems the only time you pay me a visit is when you need something." It was a bad attempt at humor, and Erik was having none of it.

"And the only time you seek me out is when you wish to chastise me. So I believe, _old friend_, that we're even."

Nadir inclined his head slightly. "Take Mihrbânû if you must. I'll send Darius to collect her in the morning." To both of them, he said firmly, "Ginger and raspberry leaves_ will_ ease your… stomach troubles, Christine." The line between Erik's eyebrows deepened, and he made a swift move to leave. He did not like the way this conversation was heading. For once, the Daroga had the upper hand, and Erik did not intend on letting him utilize it.

"I know which remedies to use, _thank_ you."

Christine laid her head heavily on Erik's shoulder and said softly, but pointedly, "Both of you, put your pride away before it gets hurt. Thank you again, Nadir. We will see you again soon, I'm sure."

The Persian grinned and bowed. "It was my pleasure. May Allah go with you both."

Erik skipped the pleasantries, and did not so much as grunt a goodbye to his old friend. More eager to get home than ever before, he doubled the length of his stride, held Christine close, and made haste toward the stables.

-----------------------------------------

He made a face upon entering the lair, glad that Christine was fast asleep on his shoulder and unable to see the level of decay and disrepair that their home had slipped into. A heavy sigh pushed its way through his lips as he strode over to the curtain that served as Christine's bedroom door. The velvet was coated with a layer of grime and cobwebs so thick that it was almost impossible to decipher the fabric's true color. Shaking his head in disgust, he shouldered his way through the drape, making sure Christine never touched it.

The Louis-Philippe room was, unfortunately, as bad as the rest of the house. Erik groaned at the prospect of letting Christine see this mess, but the swan bed was dusty and littered with rat pellets and spider webs— certainly no place for his precious fiancée to sleep.

With no other option left but to wake her, he lowered his lips to hers and roused her with a kiss. Christine moaned sleepily, then smiled against his mouth.

"Are we home?" she murmured, snuggling into his chest.

"We are. Unfortunately, it needs a bit of tidying up before it will be inhabitable— for human beings, anyway."

Now wide awake, Christine clutched to him like a frightened child. "What do you mean 'human beings'? Are there rats and snakes and… and _spiders_ down here?"

A muscle in Erik's jaw twitched. From his early childhood, he had always pitied spiders; the poor creatures were despised and killed simply because they were ugly. As a boy, he had made friends with the spiders that spun beautiful silk webs in his windowsill. If something so abhorrent and hideous could create something so beautiful, he had thought, perhaps there was hope for his future.

But he could not find the words to explain this to Christine— sweet, naïve Christine, who had only ever known beauty, and had yet to abandon her fear of ugliness entirely.

"A few," he answered finally. "But you must remember that they are far more terrified of you than you are of them."

Looking unconvinced, Christine's eyes darted fearfully to the dark corners of the room. "I don't think that's possible."

"It is." He set her gently on her feet with a reassuring kiss on the crest of her head. "But if it makes you feel better, I will go through the house and remove any unwanted guests from the premises. If you happen to stumble upon one, just call for me, and I'll come to help you."

She smiled weakly, rubbing her temples. "I suppose the tradeoff for falling in love with the Phantom of the Opera is that I have to live with his pets, hmm?"

Erik returned the expression and set about dusting the armoire with the hem of his cloak. "Oh, if you think rats and snakes are terrible, you should have met Ayesha." A sad smile touched the corner of his lips. At Christine's questioning look, he continued, "My cat. Died two years from last March. She was my first love. Felines, you see, have no regard for disfigurement. So long as I scratched behind her ears and built a fire for her to curl up in front of, she loved me unconditionally." His green eyes gleamed with amusement. "She absolutely loathed the Daroga though— and anyone else who tried to steal my attention."

"A good thing indeed that she never met me," Christine agreed, moving toward the bed to brush off the sheets. Erik intercepted her path, though, and steered her back to an armchair, which he proceeded to dust off. His fiancée frowned, opening her mouth to protest.

"Don't give me that look, Christine," he chided gently. "A woman in your condition should not be—" He caught himself too late, and hesitated awkwardly. "—up and about."

"What condition? I just have a touch of the flu, Erik, and I feel perfectly fine at the moment."

"Good," he countered, his wits recovered. "Let us keep it that way, shall we?" He nodded at the chair, and Christine sat down with a glower. Once his back was turned, he winced, cursing at himself silently for the near-catastrophe.

After a brief silence, Christine resumed their previous conversation with a light tone that grated on his dark mood. "I never knew you liked animals. Perhaps when we move into our house in Perros, we could get another cat— one that likes _both_ of us, and any children we might have."

It was as if the blood suddenly froze in Erik's veins. He stiffened, but remembered himself quickly, resuming his dusting as if nothing were amiss. It was just an offhanded comment. Surely she didn't know…

Steering the conversation to a more comfortable topic, he agreed in a slightly-choked voice, "I had a dog as a young boy, too, you know: a spaniel named Sasha. Perhaps we could adopt one of each, a pup and a kitten."

Fortunately, this seemed to delight Christine. She clapped her hands and squealed like the girl she was, her face alight with glee. "Oh, Erik, could we really?"

He nodded, his lips still pursed uncomfortably. "If you wish."

Despite her instructions to stay seated, she leapt to her feet and bounded across the room to press a kiss to his unmasked cheek. "I've always wanted pets! Papa didn't like cats, and I was too small to look after a dog, so I never had any growing up. And, of course, we were never allowed them in the dormitories. Oh, Erik, I'm so excited! We'll have to go shopping, you and I, for the proper supplies— beds and toys and treats and brushes, and everything else! I should make a list of everything we'll need, so we'll be ready…"

And before he could call after her and remind her not to overwork or overexcite herself, she had skipped through the curtain and down to the desk.

For several minutes the lair was silent except for the scratch of her quill, the brush of Erik's cloak on the furniture, and the frantic pounding of his heart. That conversation had almost been disastrous. He knew that he was treading on very, very thin ice, and even one tiny crack in the surface could plunge him into icy depths. Christine was easily distracted, but she wasn't stupid; sooner or later, it would occur to her that it had been well over six weeks since she had last menstruated. After that… nothing was certain.

And God, how Erik loathed uncertainty!

He forced himself to focus on the present, as it was the only thing that bound him to sanity. Christine was blissfully unaware of the catastrophe growing inside of her, they were back at home, the de Chagny threat had temporarily abated, and the officious Daroga was no longer breathing down Erik's neck. For the moment, everything was going as planned.

_Let's just hope it stays that way_.

**A/N: -giggles- The thought of Erik doing something like picking up dog poop is just hysterical to me. :D**

**Happy 4th of July to my American readers! Hope you had a fun, productive day off. **

**So I've decided that I want to actually give titles to all of the chapters in this story. The problem? I suck at naming things. Haha. I have a few ideas for some of my personal favorites (no, I'm not telling which!), but I need lots and lots of suggestions! PLEASE, PLEASE, PRETTY PLEASE PM ME with ideas, if you come up with any. This is your chance to leave a permanent mark on "Evergreen"! **

**Oh my God. Nearly a thousand reviews now! I'm so spoiled. Hehe. Thank you all so very much! Your support and feedback means the world to this humble authoress. :) Keep it up, my loves! **


	47. Bittersweet

**A/N: Woo-hoo! Something actually ****happens**** in this chapter! –is excited- There's enough fluff in this chapter to flood a continent. Enjoy!**

**joanieponytail, this one's for you!**

Her stomach churned threateningly for the eighth time that night. With a choked sob of frustration, she pushed herself into a sitting position, swung her feet over the edge of the bed, and galloped for the bathroom. She felt her throat muscles contract and tried to swallow her sickness, but halfway across the main room her stomach convulsed. In a desperate move to avoid soiling any of Erik's furniture, she lurched over to the lake, fell to her knees, and retched violently into the black water.

It was a longer spell than the others had been. Christine was shaking profusely, her nose and eyes dripping, by the time the spasms stopped. It was all she could do to collapse backwards instead of into the vomit-sullied lake water.

Two strong hands grabbed her beneath the arms, breaking her fall by mere centimeters. She was sobbing and trembling so badly that she didn't notice. Only when Erik shifted her into his arms, cradling her like a child against his chest, did she realize that her head had not smacked cold rock.

He rocked her, and she cried.

"I'm dying."

"No, you're not."

Her stomach rolled, and she twisted her head around and spat up bile. Erik didn't flinch. Exhausted, in pain, with a terrible taste in her mouth, barely clinging to consciousness, she _wished_ she could just die and be done with it. This damned flu had plagued her for— what? Three weeks now?

Christine slumped against her fiancé wearily, too tired now for tears. She could hear the soft thump of Erik's heartbeat against her ear, and tried to take comfort from its persistence. It was soothing to know that he would be at her side no matter what deadly affliction ailed her, but her own heart ached with the knowledge that she was a terrible burden to him.

After her shaking died down a bit, she whispered mournfully, "I didn't mean to wake you again. Just because I don't get any sleep does not mean you shouldn't."

Erik's chest rumbled with the comforting sound of his laughter. "If you recall, my dear, I hardly slept at all before I met you. The thought of spending the night in your arms changed my outlook on the idea." He kissed the crown of her head softly. "So if you are not in our bed, then logically I have no reason to occupy it."

"Except personal wellbeing," Christine retorted as he stood, lifting her almost effortlessly.

His eyes glittered in the dying candlelight. "Bah. Never needed it before."

She would have swatted him playfully if she had possessed the strength. "You were not living with _me_ before."

"Technically," said Erik, a smile tugging at his lips, "My primary residence used to be the ceiling above your dorm. You, Mademoiselle Giry and I have been roommates, therefore, since you were seven."

"Yes, and you were a terrible influence then, too," she said, a smile lifting the corners of her own mouth despite herself. "Keeping me up half the night with your so-called _music lessons_…"

Erik adopted a wounded look as he set her down on the bed and lay down beside her. "'So-called?'"

"Mmhmm." Her heavy eyelids slipped shut, and she snuggled automatically into the warmth of Erik's body, entwining her legs with his beneath the blanket. "I've discovered your secret at last. It was all an excuse for you to watch me change into my nightshift. Admit it."

"I never!" he gasped.

She opened one eye and arched the brow above it. "_Never_?"

The corner of his lip twitched. "Well, all right, perhaps once or twice—"

"I knew it." She sighed as she laid her head atop his bare chest, but halfway through, the sound turned into a moan. "I'm dying."

"No, you're not."

Christine opened her mouth to argue, but found that she was too tired to speak. Erik's heart drummed beneath her head— her favorite lullaby. Another weary sigh, and the steadfast, gentle thudding lulled her to sleep.

-------------------------------------------

The bed was cold when she woke the next morning. Aside from slightly tense abdominal muscles and a foul taste in her mouth, there was hardly a sign that she had spent the greater portion of the night bent over a chamber pot— or lake, as the case happened to be. Relief overpowered her disappointment in waking alone, and she rose from bed feeling a great deal more cheerful than she could recall being in weeks.

Her spirits only lifted further when she discovered her fiancé alternately stirring the contents of three different pots. And even better— for the first time in what seemed an eternity, the smell of food did not make her want to retch!

She started to hum, and Erik looked up, startled, as she wound her arms around his waist from behind. "Breakfast?" she inquired, peering into the steaming pots and pans.

"Good morning to you, too." He turned to kiss her before returning to his cooking. "Crêpes with raspberry sauce."

Christine raised her eyebrows, impressed. "And what, pray tell, is the occasion?"

"You slept for three consecutive hours. I had no idea what to do with myself. Eventually I got up, took a bath, cleaned the organ pipes, washed a few of the dust covers, went to the farmer's market to buy the ingredients for your breakfast, forgot the butter, went back to the market to fetch it, came back here, and _voila_." He took a silver plate down from the cupboard above his head and placed a crêpe on it, then drizzled a delicious-smelling, warm raspberry sauce atop it. Christine was almost too stunned to accept the plate until her stomach gave a ravenous growl, snapping her out of her reverie.

"You… you did all of that in three hours?"

Erik shrugged. "While I am accustomed to wallowing in my own filth, I know you uphold higher living standards." He eyed her seriously. "It will be another two weeks before our house in Perros-Guirec is complete. I paid Monsieur O'Reilly a visit this morning, and his progress is… lagging. I told him that I will take my business elsewhere if his men cannot finish the repairs by mid-July. So in the meantime, I am trying to restore this godforsaken sewer to some level of decency." He paused, short of breath, an unexplained frustration shining in his emerald eyes. "I know it is not yet suitable, but I'm trying—"

Christine silenced him with a long, raspberry-flavored kiss, stroking her fingers through his hair in an attempt to soothe the demon she hadn't known existed.

"You are wonderful," she assured him once their lips parted. "This _place_ is wonderful, Erik— with or without the cobwebs. It doesn't matter to me. If I wanted a life of luxury and finesse, I would never have abandoned my life as Vicomtesse. I didn't want that life. I wanted_ you_." She kissed him again, making sure to get every last drop of raspberry off of his lips. Once she had teased him enough, and some of the tension drained from his muscles, she pulled away and grinned. "Come to think of it, your crêpes aren't bad either. Raoul never made me breakfast."

That seemed to lighten Erik's mood. He arched an eyebrow, a competitive gleam brightening his eyes. "Oh, he didn't, did he?"

She took a bite of crêpe and shook her head. "I don't believe he ever touched a stove in his life. His family had a fleet of servants that prepared all the meals."

Erik made a face, murmuring something unintelligible under his breath. She laughed, nuzzling his shoulder. "You are just like a jealous little boy sometimes," she observed, tilting her head. "It's utterly frustrating most of the time, but for some reason—" She took a big bite of crêpe. "—It's endearing this morning. I think it's your cooking. Meg was right; you're a witch doctor after all."

His shoulders tensed, a defensive wall slamming up in his eyes. "I didn't put anything in your food, Christine."

Christine pulled away, frowning slightly. "I know that." She reached up a hand to stroke his upper arm. "Erik?" When he remained silent, the wary look darkening his visible features, she set her plate down, took him gently by the shoulders, and turned him to face her. He didn't put up a fight, but he refused to meet her gaze.

Her frown deepened. "Erik? What's wrong? What did I say?" She replayed the conversation mentally, and her mind snagged on one particular phrase: _witch doctor._ Her eyes widened in horror, and she tightened her grip on his arms. "Oh, love, I was teasing! Certainly you know I don't actually believe you're a—"

"'Witch doctor,'" Erik finished darkly.

Christine shook her head wildly. "No… no, no, no, you misunderstood me. What I meant was that your cooking was so delicious that-" She hesitated, trying to find the least offensive way to phrase her thoughts. Unfortunately, Erik seemed to take her pause as confirmation of his side of the argument.

"That I must have put some pagan potion in it to enchant you," he said.

"Yes," she conceded with a sigh. "It was a _joke_, Erik. I didn't mean to offend you." Her breath snagged in her chest as he finally made eye contact, and she saw the magnitude of hurt that her careless jest had caused him. Tears sprang to her own eyes as she gripped his shoulders tightly, as if the strength of her embrace could erase the past few moments from existence.

Slowly, the pain ebbed from Erik's eyes, and remorse took its place. He heaved a sigh, wrapping his arms firmly around Christine's waist.

"Forgive me," he whispered almost inaudibly, brushing his lips against her curls. "I don't know what's come over me this morning."

_Perhaps the fact that you haven't slept in four nights, because you were up caring for me, _she thought, but refrained from voicing her answer; now was most certainly not the time to rekindle another argument. Instead she sighed shakily and lifted her face, grateful when he lowered his mouth to kiss her gently.

"Let's forget this ever happened," she suggested once their kiss was broken, "and start over."

Erik nodded, forcing a smile. "Good morning, my love."

"Good morning." They kissed tenderly.

"I made breakfast. Are you hungry?"

"That's so very kind of you. Yes, thank you, I'm ravenous." She accepted the half-eaten crêpe and placed one bite in her mouth, then offered another to her fiancé, continuing with the pattern until the plate was empty.

Erik smiled at her and kissed away a drop of raspberry at the corner of her mouth. "Delicious," he said with a wink. "Would you care for another?"

She laughed. "Kiss or crêpe?"

"Both."

"Yes to the first, no to the second," she answered. "I feel good at the moment, and I don't want to test my stomach's temper. My lips, on the other hand, are always hungry for more." She hardly managed to get the last word out before he acquiesced enthusiastically. They spent what felt like hours making up for the morning's mishap, and by the time Christine pulled away, her lips were sore and swollen, her hair a frizzy, tangled mess.

She collapsed against the nearest wall, grinning and panting. "I think we should argue more often."

"Agreed." Erik reached up to fix his mask, which had slipped sideways during their exertions. "It's wonderful exercise. I think I might need another bath."

"Only if I can join you."

He smiled devilishly. "Then I most _certainly _need one. I'll go prepare it." He dashed off towards the filtered pool, and she watched his lean form appreciatively as he hauled heavy pots of water across the room to the stove for heating. The smile fell from her face at the contrast between the two of them. It was unfair that he should do everything while she sat and watched; she was tired of feeling useless.

"I'm going to go tidy up the bedroom a bit," she announced, ignoring Erik's critical stare. The moment she stepped through the curtain, her spirits lifted; there were at least a hundred chores to be done in the Louis-Philippe room alone, and she decided then and there that every moment that she was not vomiting, she would be cleaning. Sick or not, she refused to be a constant burden to Erik.

By the time Erik announced that their bath was ready, Christine had made their bed, organized all of the outfits in her wardrobe according to occasion, taken down the black lace curtain around the bed for washing, and dusted every last piece of furniture in the room. She stood back to survey her progress and make a mental list of chores yet to be completed, and then nodded smartly.

"I'll be there in a moment!" came her delayed response. She trotted across the room and dug through the small linen trunk pressed against the far wall. Once she found her towel, she removed her nightgown and tossed it on top of the pile of laundry, and wrapped the towel around her.

She stopped short, however, as a dull ache stung her bound breasts. Frowning, she unwrapped the towel and stared down at her chest. There were no bruises— she had thought that perhaps Erik had been a bit over-eager in his handling of her, but after a moment the realization struck her that she must be nearing her menstrual cycle. A few times in the past, her breasts had been tender during that _splendid_ time of the month, and Meg had sympathetically loosened her corset strings to allow her easier movement. Sighing and rolling her eyes, she folded the towel a bit more gently around herself and headed toward the main room.

_Erik is not going to be happy to hear about this, _she thought with mild amusement. _A week without lovemaking will probably kill him._ Though she supposed that wasn't fair; he had cared for her selflessly during the weeks of bleeding after her miscarriage.

Her stride slowed, and then stopped. No, that couldn't be right. That had been almost three months ago…

The blood drained from her face as her heart stopped cold. Slowly… very slowly… she turned to look at herself in the mirror.

And suddenly, she knew.

**A/N: In unison, now: "Well, it's ABOUT TIME!"**

**:D**

**-stops talking before she gives anything away-**


	48. Confrontation

**A/N: The standard line-up of excuses, guys. :( I'm very sorry it took so long, really I am! Hopefully this story is worth the wait. I try. –sigh-**

**And to Barb: "I've figured out your devious little ways. Next chapter will be all Raoul and Emily, leaving us to dangle in the wind that much longer." … This chapter is a –stick tongue out!- to you, LOL! (But the review was much appreciated nonetheless, hehe) Just when you thought you had my system all figured out… ;) **

_The sixteenth day of June, 1871_

_Madame Giry,_

_You will forgive me, I hope, for this letter will not be a light one. My sincerest apologies for burdening you with my troubles, but difficult times have descended upon me, and I did not know who else to turn to; you are the only mother I have ever known, and it is a mother's counsel that I seek so desperately at this moment!_

_I suppose I should just say it, then. I am with child— Erik's child. Knowing you, this is probably not a surprising discovery at all; you are so aggravatingly wise (and I mean that in the most respectful and adoring way possible!) that you probably knew about this months ago and chose to keep your silence. One would think that I might have considered the consequences to my actions, but after losing Raoul's baby I was so devastated that somehow, I think I subconsciously accepted that child's loss as the loss of any potential children. It is ridiculous, I know, but the thought never occurred to me that I would ever again have the opportunity to be a mother. And now that I do, I have no idea what to think or how to feel. But I believe as I am talking to you, even on paper, the shock is starting to melt away and make room for emotion to take root. Bear with me, please! _

_My first instinct is to worry myself sick, which I know you would scold me for. What will Erik think? No… I know what Erik will think, and I am terrified of his reaction. His fear is powerful, and it makes him rash. I do not believe there is anything more frightening to him than passing on his deformity to another human being. He will ask me to destroy it, try to convince me that it's the humane thing to do. I do not know if I have the strength to hear those horrifying words come from his mouth, even if I understand why he thinks he has to say them. I have lost one baby, and the devastation nearly killed me. To lose another is unthinkable. But must my child live with the burden of a father who hates him? It's not fair, Madame— I can hardly stand it! _

_Uncertainty inspires my Erik to do terrible things, but I know he is a good man. This child could bring out either the best or the worst in him, but I don't know what to do if the latter comes about. I suppose the only thing I can do is pray with all my heart, and wait for advice from both you and the Lord. Oh, and Monsieur Khan— Erik's best friend, despite his endless protests… I shall seek his counsel as well. _

_I fear for my child's life, and the sanity of all. But deep in my heart, I cannot help but be grateful. I have always ached to hold a tiny child in my arms… a child who will grow to be kind, gentle, intelligent, and respectful… a child whom I will rock as a babe, and who will rock me when I am old and weak. Despite all the terror surrounding this baby's birth, I am excited and anxious and still completely incredulous. _

_But I had best end this letter before this torrent of emotions causes me to explode! Waiting for your response will be a great exercise in patience for me. Do not send it to the Opera Populaire, though, in case Erik should intercept it. I will ask Monsieur Khan to deliver your message to me. His address is Number Six B Rue Labrouste, in Paris. _

_Again, my apologies for thrusting this burden on your shoulders. I hope this letter finds you in good health. Send my love and kisses to Meg, but please don't mention the baby to her; knowing your daughter, she would quit her wonderful job as prima ballerina and storm up to Paris to give Erik a good verbal lashing before tending to me like a fussy nursemaid. Amusing as that would be, I'd feel guilty forever. I miss you both terribly! Please write back as soon as you possibly can._

_All my love,_

_Christine _

-----------------------------------------------

Erik narrowed his eyes at Christine as she stepped into the light, pulling her summer cloak tighter around herself.

"Where were you?"

She couldn't look him in the face; he could always sense when she was telling a half-truth. "Delivering a letter to the Girys."

He rose to his feet, watching her. Christine chewed the inside of her lip as she strode over to him and planted a light kiss on his jaw. Finally, she looked up into his eyes, and saw the blunt skepticism written there.

"What?" she challenged with more confidence than she felt. "I was."

The skin around his lips tightened, but he shrugged. "I never said you weren't. I just don't like you going up to the city alone."

_But I'm not alone, _she wanted to say. Instead, she raised her eyebrows and folded her arms over her chest— a defensive gesture against both the drafty air and Erik's probing eyes. "I needed sunshine. It's so cold down here, and it's the middle of June! Besides, you were composing, and I didn't want to bother you."

He frowned. "You know I would take a rest from my music if it meant assuring your safety. I hate to bring it up, but the gendarmes are still on the lookout for you. Plus, it's sweltering on that dreadful pavement. You might have gotten overheated."

Now it was her turn to narrow her eyes. Erik had always been protective of her, but there was something not right about this. "I've lived in this city for ten years," she said, her brows knitting. "All year 'round, including summers. It has never been a problem before. Why are you suddenly so concerned for my health?" Her heart clenched painfully. He_ couldn't_ know… she was imagining things…

But then why did he stiffen as if he had been caught doing something inappropriate? Christine's pulse quickened as she held her breath, waiting for his answer.

"It's… particularly warm this summer." A lame excuse— and he wouldn't meet her gaze. After a moment, he added only a bit more convincingly, "And you've been ill." It was a reasonable enough answer, she mused, but a suspicious voice in her head lingered on his blatant unease. He was skirting around the topic, deflecting it before it had a chance to prod at the source of his disquiet.

Pursing her lips into a straight white line, Christine pushed the conversation forward doggedly, unwilling to let the subject rest until she got the information she wanted.

"It was warmer than this in Rome, and I was far more ill," she said as airily as she could manage, beginning to walk in slow circles around him like a predator closing in on its prey. Erik's eyes followed her warily, and she made note of it. "But I still recall you _allowing_ me to attend strenuous rehearsals for hours at a time without so much as a disapproving glance." She stopped her circling and stared piercingly at him until he looked up. "Why are you so worried now? What has changed?"

Now she was positive she saw panic cloud Erik's eyes. He was a master of self-control, however; a moment later, it was as if he had slammed up walls that blocked out all signs of emotion. So calm and collected were his features and tone that if she had not seen the look in his eyes just a few seconds prior— like a wild animal, cornered, with a musket pressed to its head— she would have thought herself mad.

"You are questioning me for caring about your wellbeing?" He arched an eyebrow coolly. "Would you prefer me to ignore your health, despite the fact that you've spent the past twelve nights hunched over a chamber pot?"

"Eleven," she corrected lamely. Then, with a bit more conviction, "You are dodging the question."

Erik's eyes were slits. "And _you_ are obsessed with it. Are you waiting for one answer in particular?" He must have seen her wits falter, for he closed the small gap between them and towered over her, staring intensely into her eyes. "What do you _want_ me to say, Christine?"

She swallowed hard. _How is it that he always manages to turn the tables in a confrontation? I am not supposed to be the one under scrutiny right now!_

But as she stared into his accusing eyes, all of the confidence and bravado that had swelled within her only a few seconds prior seemed to drain out of her in a flood. Oh God… what if she was wrong? It would not be the first time that she had jumped to conclusions and, in doing so, made a fool of herself.

Suddenly Christine was sure that she had made a terrible, terrible mistake. Backpedaling desperately, she stammered and stumbled over her words.

"No-nothing—" Her cheeks flamed. "I… I was j-just wondering if you had… had perhaps… found the source of my illness, and were keeping it from me because you thought I might be afraid." She said the last part very quickly, relieved to have come up with a passable excuse for her strange inquisition.

Erik opened his mouth to object, but before the words could spill forth he seemed to rethink them. The moment of hesitation was all the proof Christine needed to restore her argument with full cannons.

"You _are_ keeping something from me!" she cried, jabbing a finger in his face. "I demand to know what it is!"

Her fiancé's expression hardened. "'Demand?'" he echoed coldly.

"Yes, _demand_!" She stomped her foot soundly. "You promised we wouldn't keep secrets from each another any more!"

Christine nearly choked with indignation when Erik rolled his eyes and brushed past her, moving to sit at the organ. "We will continue this conversation when you can speak to me like an adult instead of a four year-old."

Mouth agape, she stormed over to the organ and butted her way between Erik and the keys. "No, we will talk about this _now_! How dare you treat me like— ERIK!" She squealed and thrashed as he picked her up effortlessly, walked over to the filtered pool, and dropped her into it with a splash.

"My, my, Christine, you're sopping wet," he sneered. "You'd better go dry off and change."

Red with fury, she clawed at the five layers of skirts floating around her and managed to pull herself upright. "ERIK GUERRIER, IF YOU THINK A BIT OF WATER IS GOING TO KEEP ME QUIET, YOU'VE GOT ANOTHER THING COMING!"

His only response was to launch into a very loud, angry-sounding piece on the organ. Coughing and sputtering, Christine heaved herself up and out of the pool. Her skirts seemed to weigh a ton each, and after several failed attempts at walking, she shed four of them with an animalistic growl.

For the longest time, she simply sat on the floor, stunned and hurt and very uncomfortable. Erik did not so much as look over his shoulder at her when she pushed herself shakily to her feet and stood glaring at him, trembling from head to toe.

"Never, in all my life, have I been treated so savagely," she said with icy calm. "_Raoul_ would certainly never have done such a thing!" She was surprised when that garnered no response from him. Her temper flared, and she stamped her soggy foot. "Well— well go ahead then: ignore me! I do not have to put up with this show of… of stupidity and childishness! I'm leaving!"

It was like shouting at a wall, she thought furiously. She stood still for a moment, allowing Erik a few seconds to remember himself and apologize profusely. Perhaps if he threw himself at her feet, sobbed, kissed the hem of her wet, filthy dress, and begged for clemency, she would _consider_ forgiving him.

After a few minutes, it finally occurred to her that Erik was neither Monsieur Andre nor Firmin, and therefore groveling would not be on his agenda any time in the near future. Her scowl deepened.

"And I'm taking your horse, too!" she shouted as she turned on her heel and stomped toward the Rue Scribe exit.

Though she knew the depth of Erik's pride well, she still kept expecting to hear his footsteps trailing her as she trudged through the dark tunnels. She held her chin high when they didn't, and maintained her ferocious glare until she and César had turned the crumbled brick corner of the abandoned bakery. Only then did she allow the tears to stream down her cheeks and her right hand to fall protectively over her still-flat abdomen.

**A/N: AWWW, their first hissy fit fight! **

**I tried to get Erik's temperamental little boy side to come out in this chapter, lol. Remember, the whole impending fatherhood thing is really messing with his mind. In no way do I think he would be abusive of Christine; that's not what I was trying to get across.**

**I'm like half a page away from being done with the next chapter, so I'll get it up very soon. Like record time soon. And just to kill (or add to) some of the suspense: NO, it's not Raoul or Emily. :D**

**Review, review, review, and I'll have even more incentive to get that chappie up with lightning speed! Hehehe! **


	49. DAROGA!

**A/N: Here ye be, mateys. A super quick (remember, it's ME) update, lol! I like this one, myself. Hope you all enjoy it as well. **

**Your authoress has turned on the seatbelt sign, ladies and gentlemen. We ask that you please return to your seats and strap in, as we are expecting a great deal of turbulence in the immediate future. ;)**

"DAROGA!"

Nadir flinched and involuntarily tightened his grip on the fountain pen in his hand, which sputtered and squirted black ink all over the spreadsheet he had just been finishing up.

"I swear to Allah," he groaned, throwing the pen down on top of the ruined paper. "If this relationship interrupts my work one more time, I'll quit!"

"I hope you're referring to your work, because you are not _allowed_ to quit fostering this relationship!" the intruder's voice boomed from the foyer.

Scowling petulantly, the Persian scooted his chair back from the desk and looked up just as his unexpected houseguest stormed into the room. "If you don't mind me saying so, milady, you are spending far too much time with Erik. I do not remember you ever being so adamant in your demands for help."

Christine looked an utter mess; her hair was a wild, disheveled mess; her dress was sopping wet and littered with cobwebs and soot; and red, puffy bags hung below her eyes. For a moment, she stood before him with her chin held high, a fiery glare masking the pain beneath. But the instant she opened her mouth to speak, her lower lip twitched and wobbled, and she collapsed to the floor in sobs.

For a few seconds, the Daroga simply stared at her, blinking a few times. Then, with a great sigh, he lowered himself to the floor beside her and took the hysterical young woman into his arms.

"There, there, child," he murmured, patting her back rhythmically. "Deep breaths. Calm down." Christine made a weak, gasping noise, as if she were about to begin a sentence, but he cut her off coolly. "No explanations just yet. We must get you out of these clothes and into something warm and dry. I'm sure I have something that will do. Let me put a kettle of tea on while you change, and then we can adjourn to the living room for a much-needed chat."

The girl nodded, wiping at her runny nose with the back of her wrists. A few curls were plastered to her tear-soaked cheeks, and she batted at them absently. Nadir's heart gave a sympathetic wrench at the sight of her blatant misery.

_By Allah, she knows, _he thought. Fear shone in her eyes, clear as day, along with a jumble of emotions too dense to disentangle. Only one revelation could have evoked such a powerful response in this fragile bud of a woman. She would need a very, very strong cup of tea, a shoulder to cry on, a sympathetic listener, and perhaps a few chocolates.

Nodding to himself once, Nadir climbed to his feet, and then bent to help Christine do the same. He took her arm for support and led the sniffling girl to his bedroom. Quite the opposite of Erik, the Persian was a compulsive cleaner; his room was immaculate and smelled of soft Arabian spices. The space was not so cluttered as Erik's lair, but he possessed the same odd assortment of artifacts from all corners of the globe. Christine's eyes widened at his collection of exotic jewelry, laid beside a set of sharp teeth of varying sizes and a green silk scarf folded beneath a lock of wavy black hair.

"What are these?" she asked, her despair temporarily forgotten.

With a sad, patient air, Nadir turned his gaze to the display and sighed. "These are gold headpieces that I collected during my brief stay in the Americas. I traded with some of the missionaries and brought the jewelry back to my wife."

"You traveled to America?" Christine asked, her eyes wide.

"Many years ago," said the Persian with a nod. "And these are teeth that I took from beasts that I have slain during my travels. This one belonged to a tiger… this one was from a bear… cobra… wolf…" With each tooth he pointed to, Christine's eyes grew wider. He chuckled and shrugged modestly. "I could not have done it alone. My friend and accomplice, Darius, has saved my life too many times to count."

He turned away from the display, hoping his young guest would ignore the last item. He should have known better.

"And what is this?" she asked. Nadir shut his eyes painfully, but did not turn to look.

"My wife made that scarf for our son," he whispered after a very long pause. "The lock of hair was hers."

He heard Christine step away, but did not look up when her small hand touched his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I know the pain of losing a spouse and child."

Nadir opened his eyes and stared at her. The agony in Christine's eyes was an exact reflection of that in his heart. His mouth fell open wordlessly. It had never occurred to him that this poor child… no, _woman_… had undergone the same trauma and torture that had nearly destroyed him. Staring into her understanding chestnut eyes, he suddenly felt a strong bond form between them. His eyes misted over as he touched her cheek gently.

"Yes," he said. After a moment, Christine's lips formed a soft smile, and he returned it. A few more seconds passed before he cleared his throat and turned to his armoire. "Now, let us find something for you to wear…"

_**-------------------------------------------------**_

Once his guest was wrapped up in a warm, soft shirt and loose sleeping pants, sitting in front of a blazing fire, a cup of tea in her hand, and a bowl of fruit in front of her, Nadir finally sat down in his armchair and sipped at his own mug of tea.

"Are you ready to talk about it yet?" he asked gently. Christine stared into her cup, her face expressionless. Minutes of silence passed, save the quiet slurping of tea every now and again. The Persian was content to allow her time to think; years of Erik had taught him tremendous patience.

At long last, Christine looked up at him, and stared unflinchingly into his eyes.

"You know."

For a few moments, he merely stared back. She would not be fooled, and he did not want to lie to her even if she could be. "I do," he answered simply.

A deep, shuddering sigh wracked her body, and she seemed to deflate— but whether in relief or depression, he couldn't quite tell. "For how long?"

Nadir wet his lips, thinking. "Since you returned from Italy."

She nodded, resting her forehead in her hand. "It was obvious, wasn't it?" The Daroga remained silent; he knew she was not looking for answers any more. A thin film of tears gathered in Christine's eyes as she continued huskily, "The morning sickness, the fatigue… all the symptoms were there, blaring in my face, and I was too _stupid_ to see—"

The Persian stiffened and interrupted firmly, "You are no such thing, Christine." He waited until she had her sobs under control before continuing. "The death of your first, unborn child undoubtedly left a deep and painful scar on your heart. After undergoing such trauma, it is understandable that the thought of conceiving again would not occur to you, even when the symptoms presented themselves… enthusiastically."

"But _you_ knew," Christine insisted. He could see the hysteria building, ready to explode in another outburst. "You spent only a few days with me, and you knew!"

He made gentle shushing noises as if comforting an infant. When her sobs faded into whimpers and sniffles, he answered calmly, "My mother was a midwife for our village in Persia. From a very young age, I was taught to identify the symptoms of a woman with child." He smiled softly and made eye contact. "If it consoles you at all, there was once a woman who remained completely oblivious to the babe in her womb until my mother placed the boy in her arms. She thought the labor was gaseous cramps caused by bad beef she had consumed the night before."

It worked; the tiniest smile played at the corners of Christine's mouth. "She didn't know the entire time?"

"Not a clue," Nadir assured her. "And she was married with eight children already. I suppose she thought herself too old to conceive again, and she mistook pregnancy for the end of her menstrual cycle. The sight of a screaming newborn was quite a shock to her; she had been expecting mal-digested beef."

Now Christine laughed outright, her nose scrunched in disgust. "Ugh!"

"Yes," Nadir chuckled. "A son was quite an upgrade. She was very pleased, after the astonishment ebbed a bit."

A pensive look fell over Christine's features as she pondered the end to the anecdote. Her tears had ceased, but her voice was still raw with emotion. "Please don't misunderstand me," she said quietly. "I am certainly not _dis_pleased with the news. I just…"

"The shock has yet to wear off," Nadir finished knowingly. "I understand."

Christine tried to smile, failed, and collapsed on the arm of the couch. "Erik is going to…" She made a sound halfway between a whimper and a moan. "I don't know what he's going to do. Perhaps that's what is most frightening of all."

Nadir wisely chose to remain silent. It was not his place to tell her that her husband already knew, just as it had not been his place to tell her of the child's existence in the first place. The young woman looked up at him, desperation shining in her sienna eyes.

"What should I do? How can I possibly tell him that his worst nightmare has become reality?"

Swallowing, Nadir steepled his fingers and tried to think of a way to answer her honestly while sidestepping the fact that her husband had already come to that realization— and that Erik's reaction had not been a pleasant one.

Just as the right words formed on his tongue, however, the front door clicked and swung open with a deafening clatter.

"DAROGA!"

Nadir's eyes went wide as saucers, and swept over to Christine. The girl was already in motion, however; she leapt down from the couch and crawled beneath it. In the shadows, he saw fear and pleading written in every line of her young face.

"Allah, give me strength," he mumbled, setting his tea down. Then, with a deep sigh, he rose to his feet and moved swiftly into the hall to greet his second impassioned guest of the afternoon.

"Why, Erik, it's you!" he said, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.

The scowl on the masked right side of Erik's face only deepened on the visible flesh of his left, and his eyes gleamed dangerously in their shadowed sockets. In his clenched hand he held the infamous Punjab lasso, and despite the normalcy of the situation, Nadir could not help but take a step back.

"It is not a game this time, Daroga." Erik's voice was as cold as death. "Where is she?"

Nadir stepped lightly past his old friend, heading toward the kitchen. "I shall assume the 'she' you are referring to is Christine, as she seems to be the subject of ninety-eight percent of our conversations." He stopped short as Erik growled menacingly and stepped directly in his path.

"César is stabled just down the street. I _know_ she is here. I need to speak with her, _so you will tell me where she is, damn it_!"

The Persian raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. "And why, pray tell, would you think she was here? Perhaps I took your horse, as you seem to have a habit of borrowing _mine_."

"WHERE IS SHE?" Erik bellowed, his voice cracking over the last word.

Sighing, Nadir rubbed his balding head. "Drove her away, did you? Because she figured it out, and you couldn't bear to tell her that you already—"

The Punjab whistled through the air and snagged around Nadir's neck, cutting off his sentence with a wheeze. The world spun and became black at the edges, but just as the Persian was about to slip into unconsciousness, he heard a distinctly female scream, and suddenly the catgut around his neck loosened and was gone. He fell to the floor with a thud, and a warm mass covered his chest.

"Christine—"

"_How could you?_"

A pause, and Erik's voice softened. "If I wanted to kill him, he would have been dead. Now come…"

"I'm not going anywhere!" Long, slender fingers touched the Persian's neck and cheek. "Monsieur Khan? Nadir? Nadir, look at me!"

The Daroga moaned and blinked several times, trying to clear the haze from his eyes. "I'm fine, Christine," he insisted. Then, with a glare at Erik, "This isn't the first time your fiancé's temper has erupted in violence."

"You venomous snake!" Erik cried. "Poisoning her mind against me!"

"Hypocrite!" shrieked Christine. "Who was the one who spent years trying to mold me into the woman you wanted me to be? Weak, naïve, susceptible Christine! A puppet! That's all I have ever been to you!"

Nadir looked helplessly from one fuming friend to the other, and raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Both of you, please—"

"Not a word, Daroga!" Erik bellowed. He stood to his full height and towered over them. "And you, Christine: have you truly slumped to this? You ungrateful coward! I nurtured and guided you in your darkest hour, gave you a voice to rival the angels, and for all my years of work, I am called a manipulator?"

"All your years of WORK? Well then, I'm terribly sorry that you wasted all of that time and energy on a woman that you clearly never loved or appreciated!"

Nadir stood up on trembling legs at that, placing a hand on Christine's shoulder. "All right, now this has gone too far! You're blowing things way out of propor—"

"QUIET!" Both Erik and Christine cried in unison.

Christine turned on her fiancé with a fierce sneer. "Don't you tell him to be quiet, you chauvinistic pig! You nearly killed him!"

"I told you, if I had wanted to kill him, he would be_ dead_! Besides, he would have _deserved _it for his _treachery_!"

The Persian puffed up indignantly. "What do you mean, _treachery_? You mean allowing your fiancée a safe haven from your uncontrollable, childish temper tantrums?"

"_MY_ temper tantrums?" Erik threw his hands up. "_SHE_ was the one who initiated this whole argument by sneaking off to go deliver a mysterious letter and then making a big fuss when I worried about her safety!"

"And then _YOU_ dumped me in the _LAKE_!" his fiancée howled. "So much for caring about my safety!"

Erik sneered and brought his face within a centimeter of hers. "Wasn't the first time I made you wet, was it? You didn't complain then."

The smack was almost as loud as Christine's horrified gasp. "Why you… you obscene… filthy… stuck-up sewer rat!"

By now, the Persian's face was beet red with embarrassment. "Erik, _please_—"

"Make me shut you up again, Daroga! Just try me!"

"Don't you threaten him! He has a more generous heart than you could ever have!" Christine spat. Erik turned on her, panting like an enraged bull.

"Wonderful! Then I have an excellent idea, Mademoiselle! Why don't you marry _him_? I'm sure you two would be marvelously happy together!"

The silence that fell over the room was almost tangible. The three of them stood equal distances apart, chests heaving for air, cheeks red with rage.

It was Christine who finally spoke, though her words were hardly comprehensible around the sobs that choked them. "You would like that, wouldn't you, Erik? To be rid of me… and our child… for good."

There was another silence, longer and more painful this time. Tears spilled down Christine's face while Erik glared and Nadir bit the inside of his lip.

Finally, Erik turned to face the Persian, pure loathing etched into his face. "You told her?"

The Daroga swallowed, not willing or able to look either of his friends in the eye. "No," he answered softly. It was all that needed to be said.

Erik's breathing quickened as he returned his gaze to Christine. The anger was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by fear as old as himself. He staggered forward, one hand lifting slightly. His fiancée flinched away, and two more tears dripped down her face. One of her pale, small hands fell protectively to her belly as she shook her head and backed toward the door.

"Thank you for the tea, Monsieur Khan," she whispered. For the briefest moment, her eyes flickered up to Erik's, and then they were so blurred with tears that Nadir could not tell where she was looking.

"Good-bye," she breathed.

And then she was gone.

**A/N: So did anyone catch the altered Star Wars line? Bonus points for anyone who can name it. :D (Hint: Think Princess Leia)**


	50. Discovered

**A/N: YES! YES! YES! -tackles y'all in a big hug- OMG, you know my favorite nerfherder! HUZZAH! Seriously, I died laughing at all your witty comments on that one. Han Solo plushies for everyone who got it right. ;) (The altered line was "Why you... you arrogant... obscene... filthy... sewer rat!" Taken from Leia's line in The Empire Strikes Back: "Why you stuck up, half-witted, scruffy looking nerfherder!")**

**It looks like my beta is out of commission. She's a busy girl. :) All errors, grammatical, historical, or otherwise, in this chapter are entirely my fault. No worries, Jen. -winks-**

**Sorry for the problems with the last chapter; the site was evidently having problems. Hopefully this one will go up right the FIRST time, and the alerts will go out promptly. -crosses fingers- **

Raoul's ocean blue eyes were glassy as he stared out the carriage window, looking at everything and seeing nothing. A fever had kept him up half the night, but fortunately, it had died down just before dawn. Still, he was both mentally and physically exhausted. The hour-long journey ahead promised to be terribly uncomfortable in more ways than one.

He was jolted from his reverie when his wife's voice broke the silence that had hung like an iron curtain between them for the past ten minutes. "Do you remember anythin' 'bout this cabin o yours?"

A frustrated sigh escaped his lips in a sharp gust. "No, Emily. I remember nothing." His wife turned away, biting her lip, and the silence resumed. Had he been a bit less irritable, Raoul might have regretted his tone toward the woman who had comforted and nursed him ever since the tragedy that had torn their lives apart. For the moment, though, his head throbbed, his lungs were so clogged that he could scarcely breathe, and he wanted only to be left alone. Luckily, Emily took the hint, and turned to look out her own window in silence.

The Comte was just beginning to nod off, his head resting against the cool glass window, when his half-open eyes snagged on a flash of white in an alley perpendicular to the carriage. Frowning, he lifted his head to get a better look.

His heart skipped a beat at the sight before him.

A middle-aged man clothed in little more than rags, filthy and undoubtedly drunk, hunched in the shadows of a moldy, abandoned factory. In his arms was a fragile woman dressed in the most peculiar clothes. Raoul would have looked away in disgust— it looked like a shabby part of town; he had seen more than one scantily-clad woman waiting on the street corners— but there was something odd about the girl in this bum's arms. Her head was bent back at an odd angle and her arms hung limply at her sides, as if she had no control of her muscles… almost as if she were…

A sudden, unexplainable fire burned in his heart, and he did not take the time to question it. Without waiting for the carriage to stop, he threw the door open and leapt down to the grimy street. His rapier was drawn and leveled at the bum's throat before the grubby man could even manage to unbutton his trousers.

"_Merde_," the criminal protested, glaring at the sword. "I found her first, kid. Get your own, or just wait a few minutes. You can have her when I'm done."

The Comte's response was to dig the tip of his sword into the bum's throat, just deep enough to draw a drip of blood. "Unhand her, or you shall first lose your livelihood, and then your life."

Snarling, the man dropped his victim, and she slid down the moldy brick wall and lay still.

"What have you done to her?" Raoul demanded, a hint of panic creeping into his voice.

The mangy man grinned, revealing a toothless mouth. "She asked for water. I gave her some." Raoul's stomach dropped, as if weighted with lead.

"What sort of poison did you feed her, you filthy cur?"

"Hell if I know!" the man huffed. "Got it off a friend over by the upper Seine. Worked real good, just like he said. Knocks them whores right out, so's they forget how long they've been workin', and then when they wakes up, you make up some bull shit time, and pay a hell of a lot less. Genius, ain't it?"

Slumping with relief, Raoul lowered his weapon cautiously. "So she _will_ wake up?"

"Course," the man said, looking at Raoul as if he were mad. "You think I'd kill off a pretty little thing like her?" He paused for a minute, stroking his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "Waittaminute, I know you. Aren't you that earl?"

"The Comte de Chagny," Raoul corrected, raising his chin. "Why?"

The man laughed. "_Oui_, that one! I thought I heard that your wife killed you and ran off with your money."

"Well, quite obviously you are mistaken."

Raoul was sure to keep one eye on the bum as he bent down and lifted the unconscious woman into his arms. His muscles were weak, and trembled with the effort, but he clenched his teeth and tried to look as calm and collected as possible as he jerked his head at the filthy wretch.

"Now, get out of here before I alert the gendarmes," he hissed.

The man scrunched his nose and spat at Raoul's feet before offering a mock bow. "As you wish, Your Countness," he grumbled before slumping off into the shadows. As Raoul turned to walk back toward the street, he heard the man chuckle under his breath, "Could have sworn it was de Chagny…"

Just as Raoul limped up to the main street, he saw his cab pull up at the curb, with a livid Emily eyeing him from the open window.

"'Ave you gone _mad_?" she screeched. "You could 'ave been killed!"

"I'm fine." He grunted as he stepped rather clumsily into the coach and collapsed onto the bench with enough force to bruise his backside. The woman in his arms jolted on impact, whimpering softly. Tightening his grip to steady her unconscious form, Raoul glanced down pityingly, and got his first good look at the stranger he had risked his life to rescue.

---------------------------------------

_A red scarf billowed from the child's neck, twisting and writhing until it broke free of its ivory anchor and tore into the wind and surf._

"_Oh, no!" The child gasped, grabbing desperately for her lost treasure. Tears welled in her wide brown eyes as she watched the waves batter and shove the red garment like a coveted plaything. _

"_I'll fetch it for you!"_

_Sand gave way under his feet, water splashing up as he dove into the depths. Thousands of needles of ice pierced every inch of his skin. Ahead, a splash of crimson against the endless blue. The salt burned his eyes! He closed them tightly, willing the pain away._

_When he opened them again, the scarf was gone; in its stead, a broken ship, scuttled on the rocks. The current tore his body in all different directions, ripping, clawing. Somewhere above his head, a baby screamed._

So, this is the end, _he mused sadly. Centimeter by centimeter, he could feel his body freeze. Blissful numbness prevailed as the current lifted him higher and higher– towards Heaven, he thought vaguely. His face broke above the water, and he gasped— lungful after lungful of gaseous ice. It was almost easier not to breathe._

_Through failing eyesight he saw the crying infant, set adrift a few meters away on one of the ship's doors. Making one last, half-hearted attempt at survival, he forced his stiff muscles to move, one at a time. It seemed years before his blue hands clutched the wood. Shuddering uncontrollably, he hoisted himself atop it. The child continued to wail._

_He lay on his stomach, clutching the babe with one arm. There was no escaping this watery death, he knew. Sighing, he closed his eyes and willed sleep to come quickly. _

_Finally, it did— but not before one final thought crossed his mind: that of an ivory-skinned child, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek as he handed her a sopping wet, red scarf._

"_Oh, Christine," he whispered. And he remembered nothing more._

------------------------------------------------

"Raoul?" Emily's voice probed. She waved her hand back and forth, trying to draw his attention. "Raoul, come back to me, love."

But he did not want to come back. He stared with glazed eyes at the woman in his arms, oblivious to Emily's mounting frustration. Slowly, he shifted one hand from the curve of her back to her smooth, rosy cheek. For reasons he had yet to understand, tears flooded his eyes and spilled down his cheek in a slow, fiery drip.

"Raoul?" There was fear in Emily's voice now, but he could no longer hear her.

The melody poured softly from his lips at first– inaudible to anyone but himself. He swayed at the hips and cradled the woman's head, his fingers moving from her cheek to caress her silken curls. At first, the lullaby had no words; the tune flowed from a memory locked deep in the most sacred places of his heart. As the discordant notes wove themselves into song, however, his tongue found and formed the right words:

_... I'm here... nothing can harm you_

_My words will warm and calm you_

Weeping brokenly, he brought her forehead to his lips and whispered against her skin.

_Let me be your freedom_

_Let daylight dry your tears_

_I'm here, with you, beside you_

_To guard you and to guide you_

At last, Emily's horrified whisper penetrated his half-conscious trance. "Christine?" she gasped.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes.

"Christine," he answered.

---------------------------------------------------

**A/N: You KNOW I hate POV swaps with a passion, but in this instance I think they're going to be unavoidable. Bear with me!**

She padded quietly through the lower level, unseen by all but a playful tabby cat who pounced at her heels. The de Chagny summer retreat, for all its luxury and space, smelled... unoccupied. Empty. Perhaps no one noticed it except her, but it was a horribly depressing odor. There was no escaping it in this house; she needed air.

Moonlight streamed through the two large, white French doors that opened out into the patio and west garden. The cat seemed just as eager to get out in the fresh air as she was; it abandoned its game of attacking her feet and skittered over to the door, where it meowed and stretched its paws up on the glass pane.

"Shh!" she whispered at it, but opened the door nonetheless. She turned to look over her shoulder for good measure, and, seeing no one, followed the tabby outside.

Once the door was shut securely behind her, she tilted her head back and inhaled open mouthfuls of sweet, floral air. The cat rubbed against her thighs appreciatively, but stopped all of a sudden, its ears and tail pricked at attention. Then, with a guttural noise somewhere between a purr and a meow, it pranced away from her and into the shadows.

Shrugging, she wrapped her arms around herself and began to stroll leisurely through the gardens, stopping occasionally to sniff a particularly beautiful flower. The moon shone so radiantly that it looked almost bright enough to be midday. She closed her eyes as she bent to sniff a red rose, but when she opened them again, the moonlight seemed to have disappeared entirely. Frowning, she turned around and looked up...

And promptly toppled backwards into the rosebush with a yelp.

A cloaked shadow stood before her, still as stone except for its gloved hands, which moved gently over the purring tabby's back.

"_Merde_, Erik!" she hissed, pushing herself away from the bush and rubbing sore spots on her backside where thorns had pierced through her nightgown and flesh. "Jus' once, could you give a girl a warnin' before frightenin' 'er near to death?"

"No," the shadow answered coldly.

"Jesus Christ," she swore, sucking a bleeding prick on her finger.

Indifferent to her distress, he cut straight to business. "It appears that you have something– or some_one_, rather– who belongs to me." In one swift movement, Erik released the cat and folded his arms menacingly over his chest. "I want her back, Emily."

Sneering, Emily threw her hands out to the side. "Well, I certainly don' want 'er! By all means, take 'er!"

Were the shadows playing tricks, or did she truly see the infamous Phantom of the Opera shift uncomfortably? She narrowed her eyes, watching him.

"You seem to be missing the point." Each syllable was punctuated with anger– but there was something else... something almost human to his tone of voice.

_Pain, _Emily realized suddenly. Subconsciously, the bond of common purpose strengthened between the two of them. Externally, however, she was cool as ice.

"And that would be?"

He hesitated a fraction of a second before answering with admirable composure, "I cannot force Christine to leave him. My previous attempt at such was... catastrophic, to put it lightly."

"She 'asn't even woke up yet," Emily explained. "Some bloke poisoned 'er on the street."

She could sense, rather than see, livid fire roar to life within Erik. "_What?_"

"Shh!" she hissed, raising her fingers in a silencing gesture. "You want to wake the whole 'ousehold?" Thankfully, he remained silent, though she could see him trembling violently with rage. "Calm yourself, man. I see this kind of drug in my profession all the time. Ass holes like the one trying to rape Christine–"

"_RAPE_?" Erik demanded.

"Quiet! Yes, rape. You're lucky Raoul was payin' attention to wha' was goin' on in the streets, or she would 'ave been passed around the slums like a rag doll. 'Appened to this girl I work with, Bess; every son of a bitch in the tavern 'ad 'is turn with 'er before she regained consciousness. Most of us know better than to take any food or drink from a customer, but there are always the stupid ones."

"He was _not_ her customer, and Christine is _not_ stupid," Erik snapped. "She is merely sheltered."

Emily shrugged. "Guess you're to blame then, eh?" Only after the words had left her mouth did she realize that she was sassing a notorious killer. Biting her lip, she looked away. "Look, I'm on your side, 'ere. You think I want them together?"

Her strange consort heaved a sigh. "No." There was a long pause, in which Emily stared at Erik, and Erik stared at his hands. Finally, he spoke again. "Did the boy recognize her?"

Emily hesitated, remembering the haunting song that had poured from his lips in the carriage. "Not... fully," she answered. "Just fragments. 'E knows her name, and keeps sayin' somethin' about a scarf– a red scarf. Oh, and 'e sang to her. I'd never 'eard the song before."

Flinching, Erik balled his hands into fists. "Sing it."

Her eyes went wide. "I don' sing."

"Hum it, then." The passion in his voice frightened her, and she took a step backwards, stopping just short of the bush.

"I... I don' remember it..."

Erik sighed sharply, and suddenly the air was filled with the same lullaby Raoul had been singing, but a thousand times more beautiful, as if the angels themselves had descended from heaven. Just as suddenly as it had started, though, it stopped, leaving Emily entirely winded.

"That one?" Erik pressed irritably.

Blinking a few times, Emily managed to nod. "Y-yes...yes, that's the one."

"Damn!" With a swoop of his cloak, Erik exploded into motion, striding quickly down the patio as if to make a quick departure. Emily trotted after him, and jumped back in surprise when he spun on his heel and marched back in the opposite direction. Not quite sure what to do, she merely stood still and watched him as he continued to pace the brick patio, his scowling mask seeming to glow in the bright moonlight.

After what seemed hours, but was probably only five minutes, Emily sighed, crossed her arms, and said sarcastically, "Fond memories associated with tha' song, I take it?"

At last, Erik stopped, but he looked even more menacing when he was still, like a panther poised to pounce. "You have no idea," he said coldly. He reached up one hand and smoothed his jet-black hair, then curled his fingers around his chin in a pensive stance. "So the sight of her jolted his memory, did it?" he murmured, more to himself than to Emily. "But not fully… that, at least, is to our advantage." His piercing eyes suddenly snapped upwards and found hers. "And you are sure she has not yet woken?"

Emily rolled her eyes. "She's out cold; 'as been all day."

"Hmm," he grunted thoughtfully. Without warning, he began to pace again, this time in a much shorter radius. After four or five circuits— Emily lost track or stopped caring— he stopped in front of her again. His features seemed somehow lighter, though his scowl was still firmly in place.

"It is too risky to allow her to remain here. When she wakes, she will obviously recognize the boy. I have given her no reason to believe that I know he is still alive— still, I do not want to take the risk that she would… would make a rash decision. We… did not part on the best of terms." Erik cleared his throat and straightened his posture. "I will take her home. When she wakes, I will apologize. Perhaps her scare in the street will convince her to stay, despite her anger with me." He shook his head. "And you… I want you to stay here, or better: move even farther away from Paris. Spain would be best… or Portugal." A deep sigh seemed to drain all of his energy and vigor. "Anywhere, just so long as it is far away from us. Christine must not be permitted to see de Chagny, or _everything_ will be ruined."

A small sound from the balcony above their heads caused both Emily and Erik to start. They looked heavenwards in unison to see Christine staring down at them, tears streaming from her wide chestnut eyes.

"Too late, Erik," she whispered brokenly. The sound of her sobs echoed in the gardens as she ran back into the cottage, slamming her balcony door behind her. From inside the house, they could hear her broken voice call, "Raoul! Raoul, where are you?"

**A/N: Not… exactly… the nicest way for her to learn about this whole mess. Poor, unhappy Christine! The world is not being very kind to her right now, is it? (Actually, more like I'****M not being very kind to her) **

**On the upside, I was SOO happy to be able to include a cloak swoop! It's been FOREVER, and he's just not Phantomy enough without it. –swoon-**

**Thanks for all the reviews, guys! –blows kisses- We're nearing the end of this story— about 15 chapters more, give or take a few. But after fifty chapters, I'm so thrilled to see that a lot of you are still reading; I guess that means I didn't botch up this story too badly!**


	51. Broken

**A/N: Okay, so I got a ****little**** bit Giry-happy in this chapter. It's refreshing to have the change in POV from the usual characters, though. It's a long one; whether that's a good or bad thing is a matter of opinion, I suppose. :)**

**Jenna: Unlimited, together we're unli-mi-ted, together we (are) the greatest team there's ever been… Love ya!**

She was on her feet, waiting impatiently by the cabin door, long before the train's whistle sounded to announce its approach into the outskirts of Paris. Habitually, she tapped her cane on the wooden floor to the beat of a nonexistent tune. Those who knew her would have wisely kept their distance; when Antoinette Giry's infamous cane began to thump outside of rehearsals, there was a storm brewing behind her piercing blue eyes.

Inopportunely, the young man standing just behind her was oblivious to the significance of the soft, rhythmic tapping. With a sigh, he reached out to touch her shoulder.

"Pardon me, Madame. I mean no disrespect, but might you please cease that infernal rapping?"

Slowly and deliberately, Giry turned to look at him, her cane temporarily still. Though her expression remained completely neutral, her eyes smoldered with a heart-stopping intensity that had sent more than one ballerina flying to her bed in the dormitory, weeping.

The glare was all it took; the boy stammered an apology and bowed several times as he retreated to the other end of the cabin like a kicked dog. The faintest twitch touched Madame Giry's lips as she resumed her tapping, more loudly this time, to a rousing rendition of Act One of Chalumeau's _Hannibal_— an exclusive performance, of course, audible to only her ears.

It seemed hours before the screech and grind of metal-on-metal signified her train's arrival at the Gare Montparnasse. Before the train had fully stopped, she leapt down onto the platform, ignoring the searing pain that blitzed through her left ankle upon landing. The old injury had already ruined her career as a ballerina; she would _not_ let it make her late to see her adopted daughter. She had told herself that she would have Christine in her arms by 2:00 PM. The world would know her wrath and quake if she was delayed by joint pains.

Fortunately, her petulant mood was short-lived; the moment she was immersed in the bustling, garrulous crowds, relief washed over her in a cleansing flood. Paris was certainly not without its flaws, but she had not realized how homesick she truly was until she stepped off of that dusty Italian train and into a land of familiar sights, smells, and sounds.

Stepping up to the street corner, she hailed a taxi by raising her cane in the air. A driver pulled over immediately, lifted her bags into the seat next to him, and asked politely— _In French! _Madame Giry observed excitedly— where she wished to go.

"To the Opéra Populaire, please," she answered, settling into the coach.

The driver turned to look at her strangely. "Very well, Madame… but I must advise you that no performances will be taking place in the near future. Surely you've heard of the fire? Pity— the inside's not much more than a pile of ash now."

Her smile faded as memories of that horrible night drifted to the surface of her mind.

"Yes…" she answered after a short pause. "Yes, so I heard." She swallowed, straightened her posture, and answered a bit more sharply than she had intended, "Nevertheless, that is my destination. My business is my own."

With an impartial shrug, the driver turned to face forward. "As you wish, Madame." And with a slap of the reins against horseflesh, they set off across Paris.

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_Some things,_ she mused an hour later upon stepping through the decaying Rue Scribe entrance, _never change. _She had checked in to the hotel just down the street, made sure that her baggage was delivered to the correct room, and then made haste to the closest and most convenient entrance to Erik's lair. It was quarter to two already, and she could still be early if she moved swiftly through the passages.

The black stallion startled her when he stepped forward with a whicker to greet her; he looked like a shadow personified in those dreadfully dark tunnels. Pressing her right hand to her racing heart, she laughed at herself and reached up with her left to pet the horse's velvet nose.

"Good boy, César," she murmured. "Why would Erik ever need a watchdog when he has a Phantom Shadow Stallion guarding his precious lair, hmm?" She patted him between the eyes and then made a sweeping gesture toward his stall. "Return to your chamber, Oh Frightening One. I can make it on foot, thank you."

Eerie, how well Erik's pets seemed to comprehend the spoken word; with a snort that seemed almost derisive, César turned away and trotted obediently into his stall. Madame Giry stood rooted to the spot for a moment, shaking her head in wonderment, before venturing deeper into the Phantom's labyrinth.

For some unexplainable reason, the closer she drew to Erik's lair, the stronger a feeling of discomfort twisted her gut. At first, she dismissed it; she could think of no immediate reason why Erik would want to harm her. Not _yet_, at least… when she was through giving him a verbal lashing and hour-long lecture on the consequences of his unbridled passions for a seventeen-year-old widow, _then_ she would perhaps have cause to fear. Still… whether Erik was in an angry, hostile mood or not, something was not right in this place. It was fear of the unknown— the power of imagination— that terrified her the most. Shuddering, she wrapped her arms tightly around herself, ready to raise her hand to the level of her eyes at even the slightest whisper of sound.

After several minutes of throbbing silence, however, she began to pray for that whisper… for _any _sound to assure her that she was not, in fact, walking through an empty (_And haunted_, her imagination goaded) tomb. As a rule, Madame Giry was not a superstitious woman, but in Erik's world, boundaries tended to erode and disappear altogether. Nothing would have surprised her in that seemingly infinite, black labyrinth.

The air was getting closer with each step, she was sure of it. Where was Erik? Surely he had noted her presence by now. She could not yet see the golden glow that usually served as a guiding light toward his lair. Had she taken a wrong turn?

She stopped and pressed her hand against the wall for support. Her head reeled, and her stomach clenched in fear. How far had she come? She couldn't recall… it might have been kilometers just as easily as a few steps. Damn it, why hadn't she thought to bring a lantern? _Arrogance, that's why_…

She had thought she knew these passages as well as Erik himself. For all the good it did her, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to collect her wits.

_Erik is probably standing a few strides away from me, smothering hysterical laughter, _she thought bitterly. _Sick prankster that he is… _

In her heart, she knew better, but it was comfort enough to restore her pride and force her legs to propel her further into the pitch-black tunnels. If she just kept walking, just kept her head high, eventually she would find that damned lair and give Erik a good big piece of her mind.

Ten minutes later, her panic level had escalated to paralytic again. Breathing heavily, she pressed her back to the wall and tilted her head back. There was no sense in crying for help; no one worked in the opera any more, even if she had the lung capacity to reach them through five levels of stone and water, and if Erik were anywhere on the premises, he would have found her already. She was utterly and terrifyingly alone down here.

And then it occurred to her…

"_César!" _she cried, her panicked voice reverberating off of the moldy stone. "_César, come here, boy_!"

Tears of relief burned her eyes when she heard the obedient clapping of the horse's hooves drawing near. The stallion pulled to a halt directly in front of her, and she collapsed against his warm bulk with a broken sigh. Again, with almost human compassion, César twisted his head around to nuzzle her shoulder. It took a few moments for Madame Giry to calm down enough to mount, and the horse waited patiently until she was situated in the saddle before taking off down the hall at a steady pace. He steered expertly through the dark tunnels, winding and twisting ever deeper into the Phantom's playground. At long last, she saw a very faint glow at the end of the tunnel, and released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"Remind me to kill him for this," she murmured to César as they trotted into the pool of candlelight and emerged in the cavern that served as Erik's home. She frowned, looking around at the place. It hadn't been just her imagination: the candles that were lit had worn down to mere puddles of wax, and most had already sputtered out. For a few seconds she sat still in the saddle, straining to hear even the slightest murmur of sound from the adjoining rooms. At first she heard nothing, but then a soft groan from the Louis-Philippe room confirmed that she was not alone.

Sighing yet again, she slid down from the stallion's back and patted his neck soundly. "Thank you for your assistance," she said, and then felt ridiculous for speaking so civilly to a horse. Still, she could have sworn she saw César bob his head in a nod before turning and loping off into the shadows. With a shake of her own head, she stepped over to the nearest mirror and checked her reflection; unfortunately, she looked as terrible as she felt. After brushing the cobwebs and grime off of her front and making a half-hearted attempt at smoothing her hair back into its tight bun, she turned and glided up the steps to the Louis-Philippe room, pausing at the closed red curtain.

A soft groan sounded again as she brought her hand up to part the curtain, and she froze. What if he and Christine were…?

She stopped the thought right there, shuddering. Still, she was more wary when she brought her eye to the crack in the curtains and peered inside.

Christine was not to be seen. It appeared that Erik was lying alone in the great swan bed, curled in a tight ball.

_A nightmare, _Madame Giry understood suddenly. Poor Erik had been plagued with bad dreams ever since she could remember. When she probed as to what went on in the confines of this tortured genius's mind, she was met with a warning glare and the simple answer of, "My past." Knowing what very little of his pre-opera life that she did, she quite understood why he would have reason to thrash and moan at the memories he was incapable of blocking out in prison of sleep. No wonder the poor man hated slumber so much!

Heart welling with compassion, she strode lightly into the room, wondering vaguely why it was she, and not Christine, coming to comfort poor, unhappy Erik.

"Erik," she said softly as she approached the bed, hesitant to reach out and touch him. On instinct, he was known to lash out in violence when caught off-guard. "Erik, it's me…"

She stopped where she stood, her eyes growing wide as saucers. For a seemingly infinite moment, she couldn't breathe— an invisible hand was squeezing her lungs, clawing at her innards. When she finally did catch her breath, it was in wild gasps, and the world spun before her, threatening to go completely black.

"_Mon Dieu_," she whispered, stumbling back three steps.

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The sheets were not, as she had initially thought, dyed red; they were freshly stained with the blood of the man lying on top of them. Of course, the moment she recognized it as such, the coppery, nauseating stench hit her senses like a brick wall, causing her stomach to churn threateningly.

A quick, nauseating glance at his wrists told the whole story. His skin was even paler than usual, and his eyes had rolled back in his head. Only the very, very faint rise and fall of his chest suggested any sort of life in the broken and bleeding creature before her.

"No… _no_!" her voice escalated into a scream as she flew forward, lifting Erik's limp head into her hands. "Erik, get _up_, God damn you! You cannot do this! Open your eyes! Look at me!"

He moaned softly, but did not regain consciousness. Wracked with sobs, Madame Giry slapped his bare cheeks until her palms stung.

"Damn you!" she shrieked brokenly before reaching down to tear off the hem of her skirt. Cursing incoherently under her breath, she grabbed his right hand and began to bind the wrist as tightly as she could, then did the same with his left. She watched, horrified, as red stains bled through the fabric. Trembling and sobbing uncontrollably, she ripped another section of her skirt and knotted it even more tightly around his wrists. _Better that the bones should break,_ she reasoned through the cloud of disbelief and horror that fogged her mind, _than he should lose any more blood._

She watched and waited breathlessly as his hands turned purple, then white. His circulation had been successfully cut off, thank God, but the amount of blood that already soaked the sheets was discouraging. Even in childbirth, she could not remember seeing so much scarlet…

_Water,_ she thought suddenly. _He needs water. _In a blur of motion, she sprinted into the main room and spun in wild circles, looking for some sort of container. Her tear-blurred eyes finally landed on an overturned bucket, and she snatched it up with trembling hands and dunked it unceremoniously into the filtered pool. Water sloshed and splashed out of the bucket as she ran back into the Louis-Philippe room, crying Erik's name in the vain hopes that he would answer and snap her out of this nightmare.

He looked so heartbreakingly small in that crimson bed, she thought miserably as she hobbled over to his side and heaved the bucked into her lap. Trying her best to keep steady, she propped his lips open with one hand and poured with the other. Water spilled from the sides of his mouth, but he choked, sputtered, and swallowed a few gulps. His eyes opened a fraction of a centimeter, and in them she saw confusion and overwhelming pain.

"Annie?" he rasped. Madame Giry swallowed hard, trying to assuage the burning lump in her throat. They had been children the last time he had used that pet name for her.

"I'm here," she answered with as much confidence as she could muster. "Stay with me, Erik. I'm going to take care of you."

He tried to focus, a frown marring his brow as he struggled to grasp coherent thoughts. A broken sigh forced its way past his lips as his head fell limply to one side.

"Don't," he said simply before losing consciousness again.

A single sob hitched in Madame Giry's chest as she stared at his wilted form. This man had traversed the core of Hell by the time he was eight years old. He had known hatred, violence, suffering and despair far beyond human endurance, and survived it. Love and understanding had been beyond his grasp until Christine, and then he had lost her too. Still, he had trudged on… barely eating, barely sleeping, barely alive… but alive all the same. After all those years of suffering, she had come to take for granted, she supposed, that even Erik could only stand so much.

"What happened?" she wept, stroking his matted hair. "After all this time, what was it that finally broke you?"

Erik wouldn't have answered even if he had been conscious, she knew. Even on his deathbed, he was too proud to admit defeat.

At long last, she sat up straight and wiped the tears from her eyes, never looking away from Erik's still form. He was not the only stubborn one in the room, she reminded herself. And as his oldest friend and confidante, she would make the final and fateful decision here; and, unflinchingly, she decided that she would _not_ permit him to die under her watch, no matter how much he protested. Like it or not, he had a fiancée and a child on the way. No doubt his attempt at suicide had something to do with Christine's blatant absence. She would get to the bottom of this whole mess eventually, but first, she had to make sure Erik was out of immediate danger.

A small, determined line formed between her brows, and did not leave for the next four hours as she sat at Erik's side, forcing him to swallow a few mouthfuls of water now and then. She changed his makeshift bandages as often as necessary, and during one of his long unconscious spells, wriggled the blood-soaked sheets out from underneath him and tossed them in the main room. With the air of a practiced nurse, she undressed him, took a worn rag from the kitchen area, and proceeded to wipe him clean. When every last drop of blood was gone from his skin, save that beneath the bandages, she dug through his wardrobe and found comfortable sleep clothes to change him into.

Only once she was absolutely confident that Erik's life was no longer in danger, and that he would sleep soundly for a few hours, did she call for César a second time. The horse appeared promptly, and she cantered him through the tunnels and out of the Rue Scribe, heading for the office of her long-time friend and physician, Dr. Devereux.

A few patients sat in the doctor's waiting room, but Madame Giry had no time or patience for pleasantries. She burst into the examination room without hesitation, and found the doctor inspecting a little girl's throat.

"Sebastien," she said sharply, causing both doctor and patient to jump.

"Madame Giry, it's a pleasure to see you again, but I—"

"This is an emergency," she interrupted. "A friend of mine attempted to take his life. He has a great deal of blood loss. I've done what I can, but I'm not a doctor."

Dr. Devereux paused for a moment, allowing the words to sink in. Then, with a calm, businesslike air, he turned to his young patient, patted her on the head, and said, "It's just a mild head cold, Minette. You need to rest in bed for a few days, and drink plenty of hot soup. No school for you until that cough is gone, little mademoiselle. Tell your _Maman_ to contact me if it worsens, or if you do not begin to heal within the next week."

"_Merci_, Doctor." The child smiled, scooted down from the examination table, curtseyed, and left the two adults alone. Before the waiting room door had fully closed behind her, Dr. Devereux was scurrying like a rodent from one side of the room to the next, collecting a series of frightening-looking instruments and medicines.

"Suicide attempt, you say? How _much_ blood?"

Madame Giry swallowed, her gut squirming. Somehow, the memory of the crimson sheets was much more nauseating than seeing them firsthand.

"A few pints. The sheets were soaked through."

"You bound the wounds, I hope?"

"Of course. And I made him drink."

"Good, good." At last, he managed to gather all of his supplies and stuff them into a black leather bag. They proceeded wordlessly out of the office and into the busy street, stopping only long enough for Madame Giry to summon César.

"Go home, boy," she told him. "I'm bringing the doctor to Erik." This time, she was less surprised when the horse trotted off in the direction of the opera house. She had seen enough today to believe anything.

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Thankfully, the doctor did not ask questions when their hansom stopped outside the burnt remains of the Opéra Populaire; in fact, he was entirely silent as she led him through the charred auditorium and back into Christine's old dressing room. With Erik's life at stake, she was not willing to risk getting lost in the labyrinth again. Ignoring the spider webs, ash, and grime, she pushed forward at a brisk pace through the long, narrow hallway behind Christine's dressing room mirror.

Only when she climbed habitually into the gondola and picked up the pole did the doctor look at her strangely. Laughing nervously, she answered his unvoiced question.

"I'm sure you have heard of the Phantom of the Opera?"

The doctor smiled faintly and stepped into the boat. "_Oui_, of course. But I warn you, I have never treated a ghost before."

The smile faded from her lips as quickly as it had come. "He has been called the Opera Ghost since he was just a boy. It is your job to keep him from living up to his title."

Dr. Devereux nodded his understanding, and they proceeded across the lake in silence.

"Fascinating," was all he said upon seeing Erik's so-called lair. Then, adopting an air of utmost professionalism, he asked to see his patient. Madame Giry led him quickly into the Louis-Philippe room, and pointed needlessly at the swan bed.

The doctor did not so much as flinch at Erik's deformity. Biting his tongue softly between his front teeth, he opened his bag, unbound Erik's wrists, and went to work.

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After forty-two tiny, perfect stitches that would have made any seamstress green with envy, two fresh strips of thick cotton, and two droppers-full of a vile-smelling medicine, Dr. Devereux closed his bag with a decisive snap and rose to his feet.

"He was very lucky that you were here. Another few minutes of bleeding of that magnitude, and he would have become a true phantom."

Madame Giry collapsed into the nearest chair, sighing in relief. "Thank you so much, Sebastien."

"My pleasure." He paused, curiosity shining in his eyes. "It was certainly not a case I see very often."

She smiled despite herself. "Oh? The majority of your customers don't drag you through an abandoned opera house and across an underground lake to tend to a suicidal, spectral patient?"

The doctor smiled in turn. "I suppose this is to be a confidential visit, then?"

"If you please." She rose to her feet and led him back into the main room. The doctor waited patiently while she dug through Erik's private stash of "salaries" he had collected over the years, and produced several large notes. "Thank you again."

He accepted the money graciously and tucked it away in his pocket, then glanced at the boat. "Shall we—?"

"Oh, no, I apologize," she answered. "There is an easier way out for a single person, and I wish to stay here and supervise Monsieur le Fantôme, if it's quite alright with you."

"Very well," Dr. Devereux said, curiosity permeating his tone again.

The ghost of a smile touched her lips as she cupped her hands around her mouth and turned to the nearest tunnel.

"_César!"_

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She was sure to give the poor horse an extra scoop of oats that evening for his extensive service.

Both mentally and physically exhausted, she trudged to the Louis-Philippe room and collapsed in the armchair beside the bed. Erik still slept soundly, his cheeks sallow and drawn. Sighing for the umpteenth time that evening, she reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair away from his forehead.

"I had a feeling you would do something ridiculous like this one day," she told him quietly. "You've always been a damned fool, Erik."

Shaking her head, she leaned back in the chair and stared at the rock ceiling, lost in thought. She must have drifted off, for when she woke, the candles had almost all died out. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she rose to her feet and shuffled across the room in search of matches. Her frustration mounted with each place she looked— for all the candles in this house, one would think Erik would keep them at hand. Finally, it occurred to her to look in his bedside table. She gave a triumphant little laugh when she found the matchbox, but stopped short at the sight of the items beneath it.

A long, sharp dagger was shoved in the back of the drawer: the razor side was crusted with blood. Shuddering, she picked up the weapon and glanced sideways at Erik.

_I'd better put this out of his reach, _she reasoned morbidly. Tucking the knife securely in the folds of her dress, she then lifted the second item of interest from the drawer.

Both the stationery and handwriting were familiar to her, but each came from different places. The paper she recognized from the days of Lefèvre's retirement and the coming of his successors, Andre and Firmin. As the head of her department, she received introductory notes from both of the new managers, as well as one from their new patron. That had been the first time she saw stationery of this kind. The second had been the de Chagny wedding invitation. And now this…

The handwriting she would have known anywhere. Small and flowery, it undoubtedly belonged to a female adolescent— one whom Madame Giry had taught to write herself when the child was only seven.

Before she even began to read, she knew by the dread in her heart what the letter would say.

_Erik,_

_I am staying with my husband. In time, I may forgive you for lying to me—twice— but I cannot forget the significance of such actions. Raoul is alive, and my vows before God were to him. You will not understand this, but my loyalty belongs to him, even if my heart does not._

_I told him the child is his. Do not ruin this for me. You do not want it, and Raoul does. The burden is gone from your shoulders; enjoy your freedom._

_Sincerely,_

_La Comtesse Christine de Chagny_

**A/N: Ooh, BUURRNN, Chrissy! Mwahaha.**

**Ha.**

…

**Why are you all looking at me like that?**

… **Oh, right. The whole Erik suicide attempt thing. Oh, and the fact that Christine told Raoul the baby was his. Haha! Funny, right? Ha? Hee? Hum. Er… -gulps, grins sheepishly, and RUNS-**


	52. Mine

**A/N: Okay, so we're going back in time just a little bit. This chapter happens after Christine overhears Erik and Emily's conversation, **_**before**_** his suicide attempt. Now we get to see her side of the story, i.e. WHAT IN THE HELL WAS SHE THINKING TELLING RAOUL THE BABY WAS HIS? **

**P.S. Oh. My. God. That was the second most reviews I've EVER received for a chapter! Reviewers, you are loved and appreciated more than you know! Kisses!**

_This time, he did not wait for the water to reach his calves before catapulting into the whitewashed halls. Everything was exactly as it had been the previous two times in this Hell-bound ship, save one glaring detail._

_There was no sound._

_He saw his feet trudge through rising water, but did not hear them splash; he reached the baby's room, but did not hear its cries; he felt the Siren's presence, but did not hear her fatal song. _

_He stumbled as he ran, trying to get to the end of the hallway before the water devoured him in its churning black depths again. It seemed an eternity that he sprinted through the liquid ice, screaming with all his lungpower into this silent nightmare. Some buried instinct told him that if he could just reach the end of this hallway, just push himself hard enough and fast enough, he could outrun his destiny and find…_

_What?_

_A light, faint and blurred at first, glowed ahead of him. The water was waist-deep, and he could feel the deadly numbness seep through his nerves. Gnashing his teeth, he reached up and grabbed hold of pipes that ran the length of the ceiling. Hand-over-hand, he pulled himself forward, refusing to be defeated again. The light grew stronger, to an almost blinding intensity, as he rounded a bend in the hallway and caught sight of his final destination. It took him a few more powerful swings to realize that the light came from the Siren herself; her ivory skin emitted a radiant white glow that made her look undeniably celestial. In her arms was the green-eyed infant, watching him with a keen intelligence unfit for a child so young. _

_The sight of them waiting patiently just a few meters ahead, was exactly the motivation his fatigued, numb body needed. The water was at his neck now, and rising quickly. Sucking in a deep breath, he let go of the piping and kicked off from the wall, swimming with every last ounce of energy he could muster. His lungs were on fire, his eyes burning from the salt, but the light was so near he could feel its warmth permeating the icy water._

_At last, at _last_, he reached out his fingers and grasped the Siren's slender hand. All around him was silence and ice, but then she smiled, and her voice suddenly resonated through his very soul._

"_Wake up, Raoul."_

Something warm trickled down his face. Raoul's lashes fluttered and he blinked twice, reaching up to touch his cheek. His fingers found fresh teardrops, and he frowned; had he been crying in his sleep?

Too tired to care, he turned over and tried to fall asleep again, longing to hear the Siren again; her soft, melodic voice never failed to touch the deepest places his heart and warm him to the very core. Closing his eyes, he began to drift off again. But before he had fully slipped away, he heard her voice again; he smiled.

"Oh, Raoul." But there was something wrong. He didn't feel the sting of freezing water or see a white light— and the Siren's voice was broken and choked. Was she… weeping?

He frowned and opened his eyes again. Down by his waist, the mattress sagged as if another body were perched there. Some of his sleepy haze dissolved at this revelation, and he twisted to look. Expecting to find Emily, a protest rose on his tongue, but it stopped short at the vision before him.

_I must be dreaming still, _he thought vaguely, a small frown creasing his smooth brow. For, seated on the bed next to him sat the Siren, bathed in pale moonlight. Her eyes brimmed with tears, which spilled over as she met his gaze.

"You," he whispered hoarsely.

The Siren's lip quivered, and she tried to smile. "Me," she answered.

Raoul sat all the way up, too afraid to blink. "This is a dream."

A whimper caught in the Siren's throat, and she shook her head vehemently. "No, Raoul. This is reality." She reached out with one slender, pale hand and touched his cheek. Her skin was warm, and he closed his eyes to savor the sensation. He had stopped breathing altogether, and his lungs protested with a harsh coughing fit. Instinctually, he turned away to cough into his fist, and then dread clawed at his heart— he was sure upon turning back that the apparition would be gone.

But, to his never-ending surprise, she remained, a troubled look marring her exquisite features.

"You're ill," she whispered, her lips drawn in the most beautiful frown he had ever seen.

"Lay down," she insisted. At first he stared at her dumbly, and then her hands were pressing gently on his shoulders, and he could do nothing but obey. A fresh flood of tears gathered in the Siren's chestnut eyes as she took his hand in hers and brought it to her cheek. Raoul was sure his heart would hammer right through his ribcage as she pressed her lips into his palm, kissing the flesh with heartbreaking tenderness.

For an eternity, they sat that way, staring at one another. A surge of emotion pounded through Raoul's veins, but he could not understand it; he was trapped in the void between dreams and truth as the past and present collided in a jumble of fragmented memories too tangled to comprehend.

At last, he found his voice, though it was almost too soft to hear.

"Little Lotte let her mind wander." It made no sense at all, but it was the phrase that burned his heart and his tongue, begging to be voiced. Fortunately, the Siren seemed to understand the significance of the riddle, for a light of recognition sparked in her bottomless eyes.

Sighing as if in relief, the Siren lay down, resting her head on the pillow beside his. "Little Lotte thought, 'Am I fonder of dolls, or of goblins, or shoes?'" She was crying, but a broken smile touched her rose petal lips. "Oh, Raoul!"

It was too much. Memories shoved themselves against the barrier of his mind, trying their damndest to break through. Lies blended and merged with truth until one was indiscernible from the other. He had no idea what to believe any more. Who was this Siren, this… _angel_? The word stuck out in his mind, and he latched on to it.

_The Angel of Music…_ He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming in short bursts. The end of the rhyme came to him suddenly: '_No. What I love best,' Lotte said, 'is when I'm asleep in my bed, and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head…' _

_Raoul, it scares me…_

_And he'll always be there singing songs in my head…_

_No thoughts within her head, but thoughts of joy…_

_Say you love me every waking moment…_

_Christine, that's all I ask of_—

Raoul's ocean-blue eyes went wide, his chest heaved, and he turned to look at the woman beside him with an overflowing heart.

"Christine!" he cried. Her face lit up with a radiant smile at the sound of her name, and before Raoul knew what he was doing, his lips were on hers. She hesitated for only a fraction of a second before responding with a desperate hunger. Time eroded, for it was no longer important. The facts had yet to fall into place, but he remembered this woman. He remembered his Little Lotte of the sea, with her red scarf and pink cheeks, her chestnut curls and honest eyes. If nothing else, he knew that he was in love with her.

Eventually, they were both crying too forcefully to kiss, so he simply held her face in his hands and pressed his forehead to hers.

"You were dead," Christine sobbed. "They told me you were dead."

He nodded. "I _was_ dead. I… I'm still not sure what happened."

But Christine was too hysterical to help him fit the puzzle pieces together; she shuddered violently and clung to him as if he would disappear into thin air if she let go. "It wasn't my fault, Raoul! I didn't mean to… you were… you were gone and I thought… I didn't know!"

"Shh," he whispered, shifting her down to his shoulder and rubbing the small of her back. "It's going to be alright, Christine. Everything is fine. I'm here. I'm here now."

His words did very little to calm her, however. Something had obviously traumatized his beloved in the time they had been apart. Who knew how long it had been? Weeks? Months? God forbid… years?

"Forgive me." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Please, forgive me."

Raoul shook his head and ran his fingers through her silken curls. "Whatever it is, Christine, it doesn't matter any more. It's behind us." He pulled away just far enough to look her in the eyes, and lifted her chin with his finger. "We're together now, and that's all that matters."

But Christine could only shake her head miserably. "No… no, you don't understand. Everyone thinks I…" She choked, bowed her head, and drew in a shuddering breath. "They thought I killed you. So I r-ran away. And then the baby—"

At that, he froze, and jerked back a little. "Baby?" His eyes went wide as he followed Christine's hand down to her belly. The blood had drained from her face, and she opened and closed her mouth several times in a fruitless attempt to explain herself. Almost as winded as her, Raoul stumbled over his words as he gasped, "Christine, you're… we're going to have a baby?"

--------------------------------------------

**A/N: Blasted POV swaps. ****On to Chrissy, if you please.**

She knew what her answer should have been.

_No! Your baby is dead, Raoul. That's what I was about to tell you. On accident, I killed it, because I didn't know it existed. And then I went back to Erik, and fell in love with him all over again… and now I'm carrying his child, and if he wasn't so damned _impossible_, I would be with him right now!_

Several times she drew in a breath to tell him. And several times she failed. Guilt flooded every vein in her body, and her conscience was divided in two.

_Tell him the truth!_ one half hissed. _Look at how much trouble your lies have put you in already!_

But the other half, a guilt-inducing hiss, insisted just as adamantly, _Murderer! You killed this man's child and committed adultery with his loathed enemy! This is your husband. Make up for what you have done. Let him think this child is his. You owe him that much._

She hovered indecisively between the two answers as her heart ripped in half. It was déjà vu, really; she was torn between the two men she loved, and either way she chose, she could not win! To answer that the child was Erik's would break Raoul's heart, and to answer that the child was Raoul's would be to deny the love and passion she had shared with Erik.

After a too-long, heavy silence, her guilt won.

"Yes," she whispered. But then the lump in her throat doubled in size, cutting off any further explanation. Fortunately, Raoul was too overwhelmed with that simple answer to ask for any details.

"Christine!" He laughed, pulling her into a tight embrace. "My love, that's… that's wonderful news!"

_Erik, _she cried internally, _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!_

But on the outside, she smiled and laughed along with her husband. "You are pleased, then?"

He squeezed her once more and then pulled back, a look of utter incredulity and innocent delight written in every line of his handsome features.

"I… I can't believe it!" Raoul admitted, grinning from ear to ear. "Christine, we're going to be parents!"

Though she despised herself for it later, she couldn't help but be grateful for his cheerfulness toward the subject. It was certainly an upgrade from _Erik's_ reaction to their child's existence! While Raoul was ecstatic at the thought of fatherhood, Erik withdrew violently from it and lashed out in anger. Perhaps, for the child's sake, this was a good idea after all.

Her musings were cut short, however, by the click and clatter of the bedroom door. She looked up, then sneered, at the sight of Emily storming over the threshold.

"Raoul, whatever she says—don't believe 'er!"

Though Christine was admittedly a pacifist by nature, the sight and sound of this woman incited an animalistic rage in her that reared its ugly head with fangs bared.

"Stay away from him," she snapped, wrapping her arm around Raoul's waist protectively. "You've done enough damage already! Just leave us alone!"

"Damage!" Emily shrieked, her eyes wild. "I saved 'is life! I nursed 'im back to health! I traveled to a strange country so 'e could be with 'is brother! I 've risked _everything_ for this man, while _you_ ran off like a coward into the arms of—"

"This is _my_ husband!" Christine interrupted just in time. "Not yours, Emily! Your little game of make-believe is at an end!"

"Like 'ell it is!" In four strides, Emily had crossed the room, and Christine rose to the challenge. The women stood mere centimeters apart, matching snarls on their faces. "Admit it, you little whore: you abandoned 'im, and you jus' can't stand the thought that you've been replaced!"

"I _beg _your pardon?" Christine laughed scathingly. "Who are you to call _me_ a whore?"

Finally, Raoul seemed to recover from his shock enough to put in lamely, "Both of you, please…"

The women ignored him.

"Leave 'im the 'ell alone, you deceitful bitch!"

"So, _I'm_ a deceitful whore, am I?" Christine planted her hands firmly on her hips. "Why does that sound so familiar?"

Emily's face hardened and her eyes flashed. Before Christine had time to react, Emily had locked her hand into a fist and swung it forcefully at her cheek.

Just in time, Raoul stepped between the women and caught Emily's fist in his firm grip, his eyes as tumultuous and angry as the storming sea.

------------------------------------------------

**A/N: Back to Raouliekums.**

"Enough of this!" As sickly as he was, his grip was firm on Emily's hand. He was wheezing hard for precious air, but the instinct to protect Christine gave him strength he didn't know he possessed.

Panic seized Emily's features as she grasped his fingers with her free hand. "Surely you don't believe these lies!" Her eyes searched his, pleading.

Raoul stared at her evenly. He felt Christine's warm hand slide up his back for support, but did not break eye contact. "The time for games is long past, Emily. If what Christine says is true, I could have you arrested on several charges and quite likely thrown into jail for the rest of your life."

But there was still fight left in the feisty young British woman; it appeared she was ready to go down kicking and screaming. "You just met 'er this afternoon! Some mangy street rat was tryin' to rape 'er. Remember?"

"It was a fortunate coincidence that my husband found me before that horrid man could do me any harm," Christine said pointedly. Anxious to avoid any more physical clashes between the two women— Emily could easily overtake him in this weakened state, if she so chose— he reached up and touched his wife's shoulder in a silencing gesture.

"I 'ave never seen this woman before in my life!" Emily squawked. It was probably the first truth she had spoken in the entire time they had known one another, he thought bitterly.

"No," he agreed. "But I have. Those dreams I had, when I first woke… of a little girl on the beach, who had lost her red scarf—"

"Our daught'r!" Emily screeched. "She looked a bit like this woman, and they 'ave the same name. You're confused. You've been through a trauma. Don't do something stupid on account o' this stranger."

"I am not the stranger here!" Christine interjected, despite the meaningful squeeze he gave her shoulder. "_I_ was that little girl with the scarf! The wind caught it and tossed it into the ocean, and Raoul saved it for me. That's how we met. I still have it tucked away in my drawer at the de Chagny mansion, along with our _marriage certificate_. You can't win; you're just digging yourself deeper and deeper into a pit of lies!"

"Raoul!" Emily begged, her eyes filling with tears. "You can't believe 'er! Who was the one who cared for you all this time, eh? The one who made you supper and gave you medicine and worked to keep food on the table and wood on the fire?"

Before he could respond, Christine barked out a response with uncharacteristic venom shining in her eyes. "How valiant of you. Selling yourself to a few extra customers so you could afford two tickets to France and _conveniently_ meet up with Raoul's wealthy family."

Emily's face flushed deep red. "I didn't even know 'e was a bloody Viscount! It 'ad nothing to do with the money—" Her sentence, which had begun so forcefully, faded into a humiliated silence as she realized her error. Desperation shone in her eyes as she looked up at Raoul. "I mean…"

"Enough, Emily," Raoul whispered, shaking his head. "Whatever your intentions were, the game is over. Leave us now, and don't come back. I shall be lenient, for you were a very gracious caretaker, even if the means were questionable. But if either Christine or I should discover your presence on this property again, I shall not hesitate to alert the gendarmes."

The woman before him crumpled to the floor. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she clutched to his pant legs and buried her face in his thigh.

"Don't do this," she begged. "I did it all for you, you must know that! _I love you_."

Christine opened her mouth to speak, but this time Raoul shot her a fierce look, and she closed it again. Stifling a sigh, he dropped to his knees in front of Emily and gripped her shoulders.

"If what you say is true, then let me go," he said quietly. "My heart was claimed long before I entered your life."

Emily was silent for a long moment before she looked up at Christine with pure loathing. "Yes," she whispered. "Too bad _'er _'eart isn't so steadfast in its devotion."

Raoul frowned, confused. He looked to Christine, who had gone pale, one hand resting on her abdomen.

"You heard him," his wife choked. "Get out."

Without another word, Emily rose to her feet. She stared deeply into Raoul's eyes, as if searching for the slightest trace of doubt or regret. Evidently she found none, for she shot one last, venomous glance at Christine, and then disappeared into the night.

---------------------------------------------

**A/N: One last time, switch back to Christine. Whew! This chappie is long, hmm?**

Emily's last words had effectively struck their target; tension hung thick in the air between husband and wife de Chagny as they lay in bed, both wide-awake despite the late hour.

Christine bit her lip and swallowed hard, trying to keep her tears at bay. This was the very _last _thing she needed. The one thing she treasured above all else about her relationship with Raoul was its simplicity. He was dedicated, strong, and easy to read— a stark contrast to Erik. No emotional baggage had burdened their marriage before the accident. Life had been uncomplicated, if redundant. But now… now she had a dark secret, and it was slowly gnawing at her, threatening to destroy everything she held dear.

Squeezing her eyes shut and taking a deep breath, she attempted to bridge the gap that had grown between them since Emily's entrance.

"Raoul…"

He did not move. "You don't have to explain yourself. I already told you, whatever happened during my absence is in the past now."

She sighed. "So you're thinking about what she said too."

At last, he turned over and met her gaze. "No. I'm thinking about its effect on you… and the baby. Do not let her jealous fit upset you so. As far as I'm concerned, she was spouting yet another lie in order to turn me against you, and it didn't work." He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. "Get some rest, darling, if not for your own benefit, then for our child's sake."

Our _child. _It sounded so terribly wrong, and her heart squirmed in protest. Still, she forced a smile when he scooted down to place a kiss on her belly.

"Good night, both of you." His smile was so easy, so reassuring, that she couldn't help but feel a little bit relieved. Perhaps it was just _her_ heart, then, that had been pierced by Emily's lance. Thank God, it seemed that Raoul was willing to turn a blind eye to what had happened over the past few months.

But try as she might, Christine could not. Long after her husband's soft snores filled the room, she lay awake, her mind reeling. At last, after hours ticked by fruitlessly, she slipped out from under the sheets and sat at the desk in the corner of the room. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure she didn't wake Raoul, she lit a match and held it to a small candle on the desktop. Bending her head in the light's way so that it would not disturb her sleeping husband, she took out a piece of stationery and a pen, and crying silently, began to write.

_Erik,_

_I am staying with my husband. In time, I may forgive you for lying to me—twice— but I cannot forget the significance of such actions. Raoul is alive, and my vows before God were to him. You will not understand this, but my loyalty belongs to him, even if my heart does not._

_I told him the child is his. Do not ruin this for me. You do not want it, and Raoul does. The burden is gone from your shoulders; enjoy your freedom._

_Sincerely,_

_La Comtesse Christine de Chagny_

It nearly killed her to speak with such curt, cold detachment. She had to pause several times as she was writing to wipe her tears away; Erik could not know that her heart had shattered several times over as she wrote. By the time she signed the last flourish on the "y," her lungs ached from suppressing soul-deep sobs. Once the envelope was addressed and sealed, she collapsed onto her folded arms and wept.

Sweet, understanding Raoul did not question her when he found her doubled over on the desk in the morning, fast asleep. Weak as he was, he lifted her into his arms and brought her to bed, and had a servant deliver her letter to the abandoned opera house without so much as a second glance. When she woke, she spent the entire day in bed, complaining of a headache. She was not strong enough to tell her husband that she was dying slowly of a broken heart.

**A/N: Well, that was a real cheerer-upper, wasn't it? **

**Just so you know, this is basically the low point of this story. I mean, how much lower could I possibly bring these poor characters? It's uphill from here, for the most part— but knowing me, there will be unexpected dips and turns to deal with before we get to the end. Hang in there!**

**-gives everyone a cup of hot chocolate because I feel bad- **

**On a lighter note, I threw in a few references to other movies in this chapter. My cousin caught one immediately from Moulin Rouge, and there are lots of others. Who knows their stuff? Impress me. ;) **


	53. Strife

**A/N: It's a very good thing I know precisely where this story is going/how it's going to end, otherwise I'd be in trouble. In a matter of 28 reviews, I managed to get people who were passionate and insistent upon every side of the love rectangle: pro-Erik/Christine, Raoul/Christine, Erik/Emily, Emily/Raoul, and a smattering of "Fill-in-the-blank is too good for anyone in this story!" Sheesh! Lol! Now, I tried my best to be fair to every character and show their side of the story, but I didn't expect to have people spread so far across the board, let alone so enthusiastic about their stances! Hehe! It makes my black, wicked heart sing with glee!**

**Be prepared, dearies: some, if not all, of these characters are juxtaposed to one another. Someone is going to lose out, if not multiple someones. Cruel of me, yes, but that's what happens with these sticky overlapping relationships. Just brace yourselves in the case that the character you're rooting for is the one who ends up with the shortest straw, and my apologies in advance. **

**We're making a leap in time here to avoid fillers and boringness. Don't worry, I'll briefly go over what you've missed through the characters' thoughts. **

-----------------------------------------

_Four months later_

"What the bloody fucking hell is _this_?"

Emily winced and drew her sore legs together, pressing her back up against the frigid headboard for support. Every joint in her body ached, and she could see her breath form small, silver clouds as it left her mouth. It was absurdly cold for October, and the nights— this one in particular— had become almost unbearable.

"You heard me, wench! What the hell are you trying to pull?"

Defiance flared in her eyes as she lowered them to the smooth mound beneath her swollen breasts. "Ain't you never seen a pregnant woman before?" she snapped irritably.

But her customer's pants were already re-buttoned, and in three brisk strides he had crossed the room to the small, moldy door. Harsh orange light spilled into the dark room as he threw it open and stormed down into the main lobby. Amongst the moans and raucous cries that rose from the rooms surrounding her, she could hear her customer's voice booming at the manager of the establishment— a bony, horse-faced woman named Mallorie.

"I didn't pay one hundred and fifty francs for a cow!" He slammed his fist down on Mallorie's desk. "Either give me my money back, or give me another girl. _That_ one—" Emily winced again. "—needs to be put out to pasture 'til her bastard's been sloshed from one sewer to the next. What the hell kind of operation is this anyway, selling a pregnant whore for full price?"

There was an angry edge to Mallorie's tone, but not in Emily's defense; she was a proud old hag who did not like to have her business criticized. "Oh, shove it up your ass, Oriel. You've been coming here since you were sixteen, and never complained once. And might I point out that you didn't even notice until her clothes were off. She's not that far along, and she's petite as it is." Before the customer could get riled up again, Mallorie continued smoothly, "But our customers' satisfaction is paramount here, of course. I'll fetch you another girl. You've had Triage before, haven't you? Liked her, if I recall? _Triage!_"

And that was the end of that.

Sighing, Emily leaned her head back and braced herself for Mallorie's outburst. This was the fourth time in the past week that a customer had stormed out of her room in a rage; the others had been too drunk to notice her circumstance. Mallorie had been lying— it was _very_ noticeable. She felt like a balloon filled with liquefied lead: heavy, huge, and disgusting.

Just as she had expected, the distinct, brisk tap of Mallorie's heeled shoes approached her door a few moments later. The manager burst into the room without bothering with any pleasantries, and glared down at Emily, bony wrists planted on her hips.

"Madame—" Emily began apologetically.

"Don't bother with the pitiful and innocent act, Em," Mallorie interrupted sharply. "Oriel's right. I'm losing money and a reputation, here. You're a good worker, and I'll highly consider taking you back once the babe is born…"

Panic gripped Emily's racing heart, and she stumbled to her feet. "No! No, you don't understand! I 'ave no money, Madame, no family, no nothin'! The baby's not due for another five months. What am I to do until then? I 'ave to eat! I 'ave to 'ave a place to stay!"

The manager's face was stony. "You'll forgive me, but that's really not my problem, now, is it? I have a business to run here, Emily, not a charity. You can stay until morning, and then I want you out. Come back when the bastard is in diapers."

--------------------------------------

The next morning, true to her word, Mallorie approached Emily with a callous air and pointed frostily to the door. Biting her lip to keep indignant tears at bay, the young British woman slipped into her thin, too-small coat and reluctantly stepped out onto the dim, gray, drizzly street.

Lost in an empty daze, she wandered for what was probably kilometers— straight through the grungy slums, then the farmer's market, across seven busy, crowded, noisy streets, into a middle-class residential area, and finally, by the time she realized that she had been walking for hours, looked up and found herself in a commercial district, with manicured brick shops that lined either side of the streets.

She took refuge under a bench, for whatever good it did her; she was already soaked to the bone, and the rain continued to pelt her. Hours passed as she simply lay there in a fetal position, still but for the faint rise and fall of her chest. After a while she grew numb to the cold— numb to everything. She stared out at the passing carriages' wheels with glazed eyes. To the passersby who bothered to notice her, she realized that she could probably be mistaken for dead. Well, she certainly felt it. Were it not for the small life curled up inside of her— the one reminder of the love, however brief, she had shared with Raoul de Chagny— perhaps she would never have risen from that stance.

Responding on cue, the little one squirmed and landed a solid kick on the inside of her womb, as if reminding her impatiently of his presence. She had taken to calling the child male in the hope— the prayer— that it would not grow up to be in a similar set of circumstances as its mother. Her son would be strong, handsome, and intelligent, like his father— and of course, Emily hadn't even a fleeting doubt about her son's parentage. In reality, the child's sire could be one of dozens of men, but a gut instinct— wishful thinking, perhaps— told her that the baby was unquestionably Raoul's. She did not fight it.

Sighing mournfully, she rubbed her swollen, rounded belly and whispered to it, "All right, I feel you. You're 'ungry. I get it. But what do you want me to do? Beg for food?"

In answer, her son continued to squirm.

A sad smile touched her lips as she crawled out from under the bench, climbing first to her knees, and then her feet, careful not to bang her head. "Your wish is my command, m'lord."

It was only a half-joking term of affection, after all; the child was nobility by blood— the rightful Vicomte de Chagny, unlike Christine's brat.

Her heart hardened at the very thought of that vile, deceptive woman, who seemed perfectly happy to play make-believe with the husband she had abandoned at the first sign of trouble. The hypocrisy was enough to drive Emily mad. Why was it that Christine, a woman of no noble birth from what she could tell, could accuse her of the same crime that she herself had committed, and win Raoul's heart? Unlike Emily, Christine had been off dallying with that masked savage and manipulator, Erik. It would serve them all right, Emily mused cruelly, if Christine's child was born with its true father's deformity.

Then, perhaps, Raoul would realize his error and crawl back to her on hands and knees, and take her and their child into his mansion where they would live happily ever after…

She laughed mockingly at herself. Here she stood, drenched, pregnant, penniless, homeless, and frozen stiff, and she was still naïve enough to hope for a fairy tale ending?

Shaking her head, she stood beneath the awning of the line of stores and walked briskly toward the nearest alley. Delicious smells wafted out from a corner café and deli, and she stopped to sniff the air longingly. A quick glance at the customers inside told her that she would never have the money to pay for such fine cuisine. Still, she lingered in the doorway, salivating as a waiter entered the dining area carrying a tray of steaming soup, bread, butter, jam, and cream.

So focused was she on the food itself that it took her a moment to recognize the man who was receiving the gourmet brunch.

Had she not been grasping the corner of the building, she was sure she would have collapsed in shock. There, as if summoned from thin air by her very thoughts, sat Raoul de Chagny and a man she didn't recognize, of equal wealth and class, judging by the looks of him.

After delivering the food to Raoul and his friend, the waiter looked up and approached Emily with a scowl.

"As I'm sure you can't read this," he growled, pointing to the sign in the window. "The sign says 'No Loitering.' Either come in and order something, or get out of here."

Lying had become second nature to Emily over the past few months— a handy, if shameful, trait. "My Mistress sent me to deliver a message to the Master, Monsieur. I was jus' tryin' to find him in the crowd, tha's all."

The waiter's expression shifted quite suddenly. "Oh. Very well, then. Proceed as you have been instructed." And with a stiff bow, he turned and wove back to the kitchens.

For a few seconds, she couldn't make her legs move. She stood, trembling and pale, just behind the threshold, staring in disbelief. Of all the days he might have appeared… of all the times they might have been reunited, it just _had_ to be when she looked like a bloated, drowned rat. Naturally.

Her approach was excruciatingly slow. Raoul's back was facing her, and the man who was with him paid her no heed, which allowed her a few moments to listen in on their conversation.

"I have just come from the furniture depot in Auteuil. Christine wanted everything in birch wood: the armoire, the crib, the changing table, everything, and I've just hired an artist from Montmartre to paint it all in pastels, blue and yellow."

The other man nodded, and consulted a paper laid out on the table between them. "Excellent timing, actually. The wallpaper is almost finished for the nursery, but the primary playroom is still a work in progress. The insulation has been giving my workers trouble, with all this blasted rain we've been having. Mold is everywhere."

"I understand." Raoul took a sip of tea. "Well, you've got four months yet, if the doctor's word is worth anything. Just have it completed by then, and I'll be happy."

Before her brain could fully catch up, Emily took advantage of the closure of that particular conversation and cleared her throat softly. Both men turned to look at her, one in disgust, the other in incredulity.

"Emily?" Raoul's mouth fell open, and he scrambled to get to his feet as the other man looked in confusion from one of them to the other.

"You know this woman?"

But neither Raoul nor Emily heard him. Tears brimmed in Emily's eyes, unbidden, and blocked off her airway. Her face crumpled like tissue paper as her mouth worked silently, trying to form words that refused to come.

"You're soaked." Disbelief eroded into compassionate concern as Raoul removed his coat and draped it over her trembling shoulders. His fingers brushed her cheek briefly, and he jerked them away in surprise. "_Mon Dieu_, you're burning up!"

"No," Emily whispered, her voice quavering. "I'm cold."

A frown creased his brow. "You have a fever. I'm taking you to a doctor."

Though her heart burst at the seams with love at his thoughtfulness, her pride leapt forward with claws bared. "I'm not your problem anymore. You don't have to do that."

He wasn't listening to her. Already he had dug in his pocket and produced a large bill, which he handed to the other man at the table. "Forgive me, but I'm I afraid I must cut our luncheon a bit short. We will meet again next Tuesday, at the same time. _Au revoir_." And without further ado, he took Emily by the arm and led her at a brisk pace out of the restaurant and into the freezing rain. They had to wait by the curb for only a few seconds before a carriage bearing the de Chagny emblem pulled up in front of them.

"Get inside."

Emily stared at him with narrowed eyes for a few seconds before saying softly, "Don't play the 'ero for the sake of playing the 'ero. If Christine found out about this, she wouldn't approve."

Some unidentifiable emotion flickered in Raoul's ocean blue eyes before he repeated steadily, "Get inside."

As she settled into the de Chagny carriage with the Vicomte's jacket wrapped snugly around her shoulders, she couldn't help but feel triumphant. Hope flared up inside of her as their son kicked her again. Raoul had chosen to help her, knowing full well that his wife would be livid if she ever found out. Emily had to bite back a smug grin at the revelation that she had just struck a powerful blow, if a secret one, to Christine de Chagny.

-------------------------------------

The doctor made her change into a clean robe and lay on a stiff mattress while he examined every centimeter of her, poking, prodding, and making notes on a small pad of paper.

"Seventeen weeks?" he guessed after a long stretch of silence. Emily blinked at him. "Your circumstance," he explained. "You are approximately four months along?"

After another beat or two, his words clicked. "Oh, the baby? Aye, somewhere around there."

He scribbled on his notepad. "Have you felt the child move yet?"

"Yes."

He wrote some more. "Any illness in the past few weeks?"

"Not really, except today."

"Mm." The doctor continued to pen her answers, and finally nodded. "Very well, Madame. Your fever is not a serious one, but I would suggest bed rest and a good deal of fluids over the next few days. If there are any complications I would like your husband to contact me immediately. As for the child, everything seems to be progressing nicely. Again, I wish to see you immediately if there are any abnormalities."

Emily didn't have the heart to correct the man's assumption on her marital status. "_Merci, _Monsieur." Once the doctor had left the room, she eyed her pile of sopping wet clothes reluctantly. She supposed she would just get soaked all over again once she went outside, but the prospect of slipping those cold, wet clothes on over her warm, dry skin was not a pleasant one. Deciding the doctor wouldn't mind if she just kept the cotton robe he had provided her, she shrugged, stepped down from the bed, and strode into the waiting room to meet Raoul.

"Well?"

She shrugged, burying her hands in the robe's pockets. "It's jus' a mild fever. Otherwise, the baby and I are fine." She stared firmly into Raoul's eyes as she stated the last part matter-of-factly, wanting to see his reaction.

And it was an amusing one, at that. A procession of emotions flickered through his beautiful eyes: first blank confusion, then realization, then shock, then anger, then fear, and finally a combination of all of them.

A muscle in his jaw twitched as he took a step forward, his eyes boring into hers. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Emily shrugged again, knowing her nonchalance would only frustrate him further. "I didn't know until _after_ you decided to kick me out." She removed her hands from her pockets and crossed her arms over her chest.

Uncertainty flared in his ocean blue eyes. "Is it…" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Is it mine?"

Emily lifted her chin and made a move for the door. "Go to 'ell," she answered dismissively. "You wouldn't care either way, so it makes no difference."

But Raoul was faster than her; he stepped in the way of the door and stared at her intensely. "Emily, just _stop_ for a minute!" He took her shoulders firmly and forced her to meet his eye, and lowered his voice again once he had it. "Please…" he tried again, honest concern etched into his handsome face. "I need to know."

Fighting tears, Emily pursed her lips and answered as truthfully as she could. "I don't know, Raoul. The timing matches, yes, but there 'ave been other men. I 'ad to make a living, and there aren't many options for a poor, foreign woman in Paris."

She couldn't look at him any more, for there was pain and regret written in his face, and she didn't want to see it. After all, a fairy tale was all her dream could be; he wasn't going to give up Christine for a street urchin just because Emily was carrying his child. As far as he was concerned, Christine's baby was his as well…

A cruel idea sprang into her head. At first, she dismissed it as far too vindictive, but the wheels of her mind had been set in motion, and were gaining speed at an alarming rate. After only a few seconds, the appeal grew too strong; she surrendered to the devilish plan, trying not to smirk.

"My God!" she gasped, feigning a sudden revelation. "It is _Erik's!_"

Raoul frowned, visibly downtrodden. "You think the father is a man named Erik?"

"Yes," she said, trying not to sound too excited. "But not this child." Her hands fell protectively to her belly. "_This_ one is yours."

His frown deepened. "I don't understand."

She turned away so he wouldn't see the glee that lit up her eyes. Adopting a sad and mysterious posture, she shook her head and waved a hand dismissively. "No… I shouldn't 'ave mentioned it. It's not my place."

Fortunately, Raoul latched onto the bait with eager jaws. "What are you talking about?"

She sighed dramatically and lowered her eyes to the floor. "Nothing."

His hands clamped onto her shoulders again, forcing her to turn and look at him. "Emily, whatever it is, tell me!"

Internally, she cackled in triumph. Externally, she adopted the facial expression of a young girl forced to name her best friend as the culprit of some childhood crime. "I jus' want you to be 'appy, Raoul. I don't want to ruin your relationship with your wife."

He raised an eyebrow. "What could you possibly have to say that would ruin my relationship with Christine?"

Emily bit her lip, both to maintain her hesitant expression and to suppress a smirk. " 'Er child is due in four months, right?"

"Yes."

"So the babe must 'ave been conceived five months ago."

Raoul narrowed his eyes. "Where are you going with this?"

Emily shrugged for the umpteenth time. "No, never mind. Forget I ever mentioned this…"

He gave her a brief, jarring shake that made her eyes go wide. "No! Finish what you were going to say! _Finish it!_" But she could tell by his tone of his voice that her arrow had already pierced its target; his anger was not directed at her, but at his own gullibility.

Her voice was soft and as heartbreakingly gentle as she could manage as she spoke the harsh, cruel truth of the matter. "You were with _me_ five months ago, in England. And Christine was with a masked Parisian man called Erik."

Raoul's breath, previously halted, now started to come faster and faster, until his chest was heaving and a thin sheen of sweat broke out on his brow. "Why would I trust you? You're making it up! You just want me back, so you're… telling lies to… to make me leave my… wife…"

"I wish I was," Emily said, her head bowed. "But it's the honest truth. Ask 'er yourself."

"_Never_ would I insult her with such a vile accusation! Christine is no adulteress!"

The other patients in the waiting room were all staring at them now. A mother with a young child rose and ushered her son out of the room.

"You are very generous to maintain such fierce loyalty to your wife," Emily answered carefully. "If only she would do the same for you…"

"I refuse to listen to these lies any more! I won't have it!" He took his hat down from a hook by the door and planted it firmly on his head. "Tell the doctor to send the bill to my estate. Good _day_, Mademoiselle."

And with that, he slammed the door behind him.

Emily watched him climb into his carriage through the window, ignoring the stares and murmurs of the remaining patients in the waiting room. She stroked her belly absently, smiling through the film of tears that had gathered in her eyes.

_Don't you worry, my darling, s_he thought, directing her thoughts at her unborn son. _Your Father is stubborn, but he is not stupid. He can certainly do basic arithmetic, and solid facts will drown out his wishful thinking. That imposter will not be able to maintain her façade for long. Just you wait, darling little one; soon enough, your Mama will replace her as the Countess de Chagny._

**A/N: Drama, drama, drama! ****Can't these guys just get along? ;)**

**I know you're missing Erik; I'll get to him in the next chapter. So what do you think of this sticky little situation? Emily supporters, I know you're probably feeling really bad for her right about now. Christine supporters are probably seething. What I want to know is whether or not this chapter has changed anyone's position. Do you still support the same pairing, or lack thereof? A new one? Why?**

**I have to say, it's pretty hysterical when you get on one another's cases through reviews. Just keep the fangs back, alright? I don't need another bloody mess to clean up— Erik's is gonna take enough effort as it is, lol! Love you all! **


	54. Parents

**A/N: I'm sorry this update took so long. As some of you may have noticed, my muse decided she wanted to write Wicked fic, and clung to it with a vengeance. I started about three different drafts of this chapter in particular, and eventually trashed all but this one (obviously). Hopefully it's worth the wait, though it's kind of on the short-ish side. I love throwing together unlikely characters with random and evil plot twists, as this chapter demonstrates. :D **

Nadir bolted upright at the knocking that issued from the front parlor door, and his eyebrows shot upward in nothing short of incredulity. Fortunately, he managed not to squirt black ink all over his morning's work this time.

"Who the devil?" he murmured under his breath as he rose to answer the door with the best composure he'd possessed in doing so for the past year and a half. He'd come to expect the unexpected: visitors-- be it Erik, Christine, or some other random houseguest-- bursting through the front door with a wall-shaking roar of "DAROGA!" Honestly, he couldn't remember the last time someone had actually _requested_ entry to his humble abode. He had come to suspect that there was a blinking sign above his townhouse, invisible to his eyes alone, that read "Come inside, make yourself welcome, scream yourself hoarse, blame me for your every worldly trouble! I'll put the tea on!" But no-- here someone was actually _knocking_, and it was significantly more memorable to him than any time one of his friends had burst in with a clatter and a howl.

Considerably flustered, he fussed with his disheveled hair and pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose before opening the door like a child ripping open a birthday present.

A woman stood on his porch. Middle aged... forty-ish, he guessed... blonde hair streaked with silver, knotted in a prim bun at the nape of her swanlike neck. Her charcoal frock was old and threadbare at the hem, and her leather shoes were worn and musty, but she gave off an unmistakably regal air. Her skin was pale and dappled with pink from the cold, her ice blue eyes severe, but disturbed by an undercurrent of distress.

He had met her only in passing, but heard of her more times than he could count.

"Madame Giry," he guessed, and was rewarded by a terse nod.

"Good morning, Monsieur Khan."

Stepping back into the parlor, Nadir swept his arm in a welcoming gesture, and she stepped briskly inside. It took him a moment to notice that her hands were wringing themselves fretfully, whether to keep warm or out of nervousness he couldn't quite tell. He was not daft enough to be completely ignorant of the situation: she was a widowed Frenchwoman entering the house of a colored foreigner, also a widower. Alone. Her reputation and virtue were at stake, and he understood her unease. Keeping a respectful distance, he gestured to the living room, and offered to start a pot of tea. She declined politely.

"If you please, Monsieur, I can't stay long, and I have never been one for small talk."

He bowed his head in assent and joined her in the living room, taking his usual position in his favorite armchair. It took him longer than he would have liked to admit for realization to strike him like a blow to the chest. Dread knotted his guts painfully, and he groaned.

"What has Erik done now?"

Palpable relief washed over Madame Giry's features. "You're not one to beat around the bush, either, I see." It sounded like a compliment, so he took it as such. They sighed in unison, and smiled faintly at one another, before Madame Giry dove headfirst into her tale. "From what I gather, he and Christine had a falling out last time they were here." Nadir nodded, grimacing, and she continued, "For once, they were unable to resolve it. By some twist of fate, or divine intervention, or whatever you choose to call it, she encountered Raoul de Chagny, who is not, as we all believed, dead."

Again, the Persian nodded. "I knew that much. He and his escort requested a room at my hotel." He didn't deign to mention the part about taking them under his own roof; it was all water under the bridge anyway.

"He is a good man," said Madame Giry with utter conviction. "Unfortunately, he just so happens to be Erik's fiercest competition."

"We are in agreement, then."

"Yes." There was a pause, a hesitance, before she proceeded with her story. "I have known Christine since she was a fragile wisp of a child. In many ways, she still is." She swallowed painfully, shaking her head. "I am the closest thing to a mother she has ever had... But she was my pupil, you see. There were lines that needed to be drawn, boundaries that could not be crossed, for the accusation of favoritism is a scathing one in this business. I had to distance myself from Christine, from my own daughter, Meg-- when rehearsing, I was as cold and authoritative with them as any of the other girls. And we rehearsed the grand majority of the time. Meg grew accustomed to it; she had dealt with it from birth. To Christine, it was a rude shock; she had grown up with a doting, affectionate father who pampered her up until the moment of his death. She craved that special attention when he was gone, more than anything."

"Which was where Erik stepped in," Nadir finished, catching on to her line of thought.

"Precisely." She sighed again, and seemed to deflate a bit, as if in voicing these thoughts she were relieving herself of a terrible burden. "It didn't take me long to figure out what was going on, but I kept my nose out of it, for the most part. It seemed to be doing Christine good; she was more focused, more determined, more confident. And tutoring her gave Erik a more suitable pastime than terrorizing my girls backstage. Everything appeared to be under control until the Vicomte— Comte now, I suppose— entered the picture. Then things grew nasty... violent." She lapsed into a heavy silence, turning inward. Distress darkened her eyes as she sat there, lost in her own thoughts. Nadir didn't dare break her from them. When she was ready to speak again, she would.

And, soon enough, she did: "History has a way of coming back to strike us where it hurts... ripping open old wounds, pouring salt in them for good measure." She looked up at Nadir, more weary now than anything else. Her eyes were wet as she dug in her pocket and pulled out a creased, bloodstained letter. She handed it to him, and looked away as he read.

"Allah have mercy," Nadir whispered as he read the last line. Shaking his head in bewilderment, he handed the letter back to Madame Giry. "So she chose Raoul." There was a bitter edge to his tone, and he didn't bother to hide it. "And Erik?"

Madame Giry pressed her lips into a thin white line, perhaps to keep them from trembling. She took a moment to compose herself, and then answered softly, "It broke him." Despite herself, her voice quavered. "I found him curled up on their bed, his wrists open and bleeding."

The Persian's heart stopped cold for a beat or two, and when it resumed, his lungs refused to take in air. This couldn't be happening... not now... not when Erik was so close to happiness...

At last, he drew in a shuddering gasp, and then another. His lungs burned, and his heart was a white hot ball that ached with every beat. "Is he...?"

"He's alive," Madame Giry asserted quickly, and Nadir almost broke down in tears, so mighty was his relief.

"Allah be praised!" he panted.

"And the doctor, too," Giry added quietly, blasphemously. "But yes, he's stable now. This all happened weeks ago-- months, now, I suppose. I've lost track of time, I'm afraid. It happens down in that miserable lair of his."

"So he hasn't attempted to kill himself again?"

At this, the woman's eyes glittered mischievously. "I wouldn't know. I feared he might try something to that effect again, so while he was still in a comatose state I bound him tightly to the mattress. He barely has room to wriggle, let alone kill himself." She laughed humorlessly. "He hates me for it, but I'd rather that than find him dead in the lake."

"Good planning," Nadir murmured, impressed. "So you've been tending to him over the past... however long it's been?"

"Yes. I bathe him and feed him-- force food down his throat, sometimes; you know him-- and change his bedding and make him take his medicine." She smiled softly. "And as he's tied down to the bed, he actually sleeps every once in a while. Ironic, really; he looks healthier now than he ever has in the decades I've known him."

The Daroga shook his head in awe. "Your kindness is unparalleled, Madame. It is unfortunate that your patient is not wholly thankful for your charity."

"When is he ever?" Madame Giry sighed, and they both laughed softly at that. The smile gradually fell from her rather beautiful face, replaced by a somber pensiveness. "I don't know what to do with him. He has made a remarkable recovery-- no lasting problems to speak of, save the scars on his wrists. His strength has returned, and so has his wit. I can't keep him tied to that bed forever, but I'm afraid... so very afraid... of what he'll do once I let him up."

Had he been closer to her, Nadir would have reached out and taken her hand comfortingly. The relationship that had sprouted between them was like that of two baffled parents trying to deal with their emotionally scarred, rebellious teenage son. They were bound to one another, though they had only just met, through their strong emotional ties to Erik. A quiet understanding settled between them and in them, granting comfort and strength to both parties.

"I think," Nadir answered finally, his fingers steepled in their typical fashion, "One or both of us needs to have a talk with Madame la Comtesse." Giry nodded her agreement, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

"I think you're right." She looked at him silently, expectantly. Sighing, Nadir conceded.

"Very well, I'll go first," he murmured, feeling like a young boy dared to jump into questionable waters. Relief washed over Giry's face, and she looked ready to kiss him. For some strange reason, the thought made him blush for the first time in years, but he dismissed it as anxiety and thought nothing more of it throughout the entire carriage ride to the de Chagny estate.

**A/N: It's not reaaally a cliffhanger... just a motive to read the next chapter and find out what happens! -cackles diabolically-**

**Okay, so I kinda lied, but not wittingly. I know I said Erik would be in this chapter (and he was, just not physically), but this seemed like a good place to end it, so it'll have to wait. But suspense is a GOOD thing, right?**

**And no, it's not just you; that really was a whiff of a Nadir/Giry crush... haha, Nadiry... I like it. :) Don't know if it's going to go anywhere, really... just thought I'd tease you a bit, because I can. Mwaha.**

**I can see it now: Nadir Khan and his lovely assistant Antoinette Giry, clad in superhero costumes, coming to save the E/C day! Whee! **

**Be good little readers and review now, y'hear? Love ya! **


	55. Persuasion

**A/N: -grimaces- I know. More than a month. I could write you an essay of excuses (i.e. I was out of the country), but I'm sure you'd rather just hear that I'm very sorry and move on to the chapter. So, I apologize from the bottom of my heart for the ridiculously long wait, and without further ado, present you with the long-awaited chapter 55.**

The Comte de Chagny stormed up the steps to his estate and into the main parlor. His hair and cloak were dripping from his brief exposure to the rain, and in a moment of uncharacteristic rage, he bellowed for his servants. Immediately, seven young men and women came running, and halted hesitantly before him, breathless and wide-eyed.

"Well, don't just stand there!" he snapped at them, kicking his muddy boots off. "I want a towel and a hot bath. I'm in a foul temper, so I'd suggest you don't keep me waiting."

The servants fell all over themselves as they rushed to do his bidding. Only the butler remained, an old family friend who had known Raoul since birth. Stepping forward smartly, he removed the Comte's cloak and called forth a maid to take it to the wash.

"Bumped in to Mademoiselle Emily, I'm guessing?" he murmured quietly, so that only Raoul could hear.

The young man turned to look at the butler in surprise, and then heaved a sigh. "She's living on the streets."

"Yes, I know," the butler said, folding his hands in front of him. "There has been much gossip in the kitchens about the Mademoiselle. The servant girls see her often when they go to the market."

Raoul glared darkly. "And did they perchance notice that she's with child?"

"They did," the butler answered carefully. Then, throwing caution to the wind, he asked outright, "Is it yours?"

The Comte's scowl deepened. "She's a prostitute, Jean-Claude. Half the men in Paris could be the potential sire." He turned away, clutching his forehead, shoulders slumped. After a few moments of heavy silence, he answered softly, "But she insists it's mine… and I can't prove her wrong any more than I can prove her right." He shivered, and not just from the cold. "And there's more." Closing his eyes as if the action could keep him in blissful oblivion to the situation at hand, he said in a hoarse whisper, "She… she told me Christine's child is not mine— _cannot_ be mine… because I was in England at the time of conception."

Jean-Claude seemed to consider his master's plight, for he was quiet for a few minutes, aside from the gentle shuffling of his feet as he picked up the Comte's boots and moved them away from the door.

"I am but a humble servant, my lord," he said at last, head bowed as a testament to his words. "But if I might make a suggestion…"

"You may," said Raoul quickly, desperate for any advice he could get.

"In my experience, secrecy is a dangerous product of mistrust." He paused, wetting his dry, withered lips. "It can only lead to heartache. Might I suggest, then, that you take up these matters with Madame Christine?"

Raoul's eyes snapped open, and he wheeled about to face the butler. "And accuse her flat-out of adultery?"

Jean-Claude raised his hands in a peaceful gesture. "Monsieur, I speak nothing of accusations. I'm just saying that you should be honest with her about your feelings. If you give it time and patience, her conscience will speak for itself. But I have to add, on her behalf, that you _were_ pronounced dead, sir. 'Tweren't exactly adultery, in my book, if a widow sought comfort over her husband's death in the arms of another man."

The Comte opened and closed his mouth several times, wanting to protest, but unable to summon a reasonable argument. He had never thought about the situation that way before— that, in his absence, his poor, grief-stricken Christine had run off to seek solace in any way she could. Inappropriately as she had handled her pain, it was a small comfort to know that she had at least been in mourning over his "death." And she had returned to him, now… so certainly that must mean _something_.

Sighing deeply, he conceded. Clapping the old butler on the shoulder, he nodded his thanks, unable to meet Jean-Claude's eyes. Without another word, he turned to the main staircase. He had not even ascended the first three steps, however, before the sound of cantering hooves neared the estate. Frowning, he went back down the stairs and waited at the door with Jean-Claude. He hadn't been expecting anyone this afternoon. Surely the nursery furniture hadn't arrived already?

A single pair of boots trotted up the front steps, and the door chime sounded cheerily. Jean-Claude and Raoul exchanged looks before the butler opened the door.

The Comte nearly stumbled back in surprise at the sight of the visitor. The kindly hotel owner, Nadir Khan, stood on his doorstep, swathed in a sopping wet cloak. He wore a grim expression, but his eyes twinkled faintly beneath his hood.

"Lovely weather we're having today," Nadir said dryly. "Hello again, Monsieur le Comte."

"Oh, call me Raoul, please!" the Comte laughed, gesturing for Jean-Claude to remove the visitor's cloak. "It's good to see you, my friend."

"Likewise." The Persian smiled. "Forgive me for dropping in uninvited. It's a matter of some urgency."

"No invitation required, dear Monsieur," Raoul said kindly, ushering his guest into the main sitting room. "You opened your home to me in my hour of need. What kind of man would I be to deny you the same courtesy? Come, come, sit down by the fire. My servants will dry your cloak. Would you care for anything to eat or drink?"

Nadir shook his head. "No, thank you, though you are most gracious. You have recovered a great deal, I see. That is very good news."

"Thanks to you. I would probably have died, if not for your generosity."

"I do what I can," the Persian replied humbly. He twined his dark fingers together and studied them for a few seconds before jumping to the point. "If you please, Monsieur, I would like to speak with Madame la Comtesse, if only for a few minutes."

Raoul blinked a few times, surprised. "I did not know the two of you were familiar."

"No," the Daroga agreed, "She would not likely have mentioned me. We are old acquaintances, from the opera." He swallowed, choosing his next words carefully, "Actually, it is her return to the _Opera Populaire_ which I'd like to address."

Confusion knitted the Comte's brows. "I didn't know it was up and running again."

"It isn't— yet," Nadir said vaguely.

"I see." Raoul cleared his throat and shrugged, smiling. "Well, as far as I know she's upstairs at the moment. I can have a servant ask if she's accepting visitors, if you'd like."

"Thank you. That would be wonderful."

She still dreamed of him, of course. Had it really only been a year ago that she'd made that morbid prophecy in the dank chapel of the opera house?

_And he'll always be there singing songs in my head..._

He had frightened her, then. He still did, but it was no longer a child's fear of her Angel's wrath. Christine was sure that he would appear one night— that the shadows would meld and form his tragically scarred face, and his strong arms and warm chest— that he would come for her, and unfurl his elegant fingers, cloaked in black leather. And he would smell of candles, roses, and musk… an old smell, one she had known forever, it seemed. And he would peer into the bassinette that cradled their child and smile brokenly, and tell her it was beautiful and he loved it and he would take them both home now.

She hated that dream, but it plagued her mercilessly. Every night she would wake with a start and bolt upright in bed, her eyes frantically scanning the shadows for any sign of him. Her forehead and sheets would be soaked in sweat, and an oppressive silence would hang over her bedroom. From his own private wing just down the hall, she could usually hear Raoul's soft snores if she strained. But Erik was nowhere to be seen, so she always curled into a shaking ball and stroked her massive boulder of a stomach, spending the rest of her sleepless night telling herself that even if Erik did come for her, she would deny him. But she had always been a terrible liar.

Dark bags hung under her eyes and her skin had grown pallid, but the doctors attributed it to a difficult pregnancy, and she was ordered to remain in bed until the child was born. Too tired to argue, she agreed by lack of dissent, and had not left the luxurious four-poster since, except to use the chamber pot or bathe. Raoul brought her books to read and kept her company for about an hour each day, but the rest of the time he was either occupied with business or remodeling the southern wing of the manor for the baby. He had pounced at the opportunity to organize and help design the entire project with an enthusiasm that made Christine smile. He was thrilled by the prospect of being a father, and his infectious joy took a bit of the edge off of her agony. Unfortunately, it was not enough to chase away her wistful dreams of the child's real father.

She napped during the day and tried to stay awake at night; she found that she was more prone to dreams of Erik when shadows were allowed to toy with her mind. He had always come to her cloaked in darkness, singing to her of the music of the night, teaching her to create it within herself. There was a gaping hole in her soul now— a black maw that only Erik had ever been able to fill. But she was safe in her husband's house, with medical staff ready to assist her at any given moment, and her childhood friend, rock and provider at her side, who was absolutely ecstatic about tackling parenthood.

"How are you feeling this morning, my love?" Raoul would ask every day, entering her room with a smile and a kiss.

And every morning, she would smile back and answer as convincingly as possible, "I couldn't be happier."

After all, little white lies never hurt anyone, did they? It brightened her husband's mood to hear her say it, and after a while, she hoped that perhaps saying it enough would make it true.

She was napping, or trying to, when a gentle knock sounded at her bedroom door. Suddenly wide awake, she lifted her head and granted entry.

The mild-mannered, blonde servant girl, Elise, peeked around the edge of the door, and, finding her mistress decent, took half a step inside. Head bowed, she spoke in a quiet, strained voice, as if speaking were a great deal of effort for the shy girl. "If you please, Madame, there's a man here to see you."

Christine's heart jumped into her throat, prohibiting her from speaking. She paled and tried to swallow, her mouth working silently.

"He inquires whether you're feeling well enough to accept visitors," the maid continued.

Finally managing to force something past her thick throat, Christine blurted, "What does he look like?"

"Foreign," Elise whispered, wringing her hands. "Arabic, I believe."

The air left Christine's lungs in a rush, surprising her; she hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath. "Persian," she amended, suddenly exhausted. Lying back on the bed, she squeezed her eyes shut. She could always drift off to sleep, or at least pretend to, and then she wouldn't have to face Nadir. But chances were he'd come back; he didn't seem the type to be easily swayed.

She was silent for a very long time, and just as Elise ducked back out of the room, taking the lack of response for a refusal to allow company, Christine spoke wearily, "Let him in, then."

"Madame?" The blonde girl peeked back into the room, frowning slightly.

Sighing, Christine rubbed her temples with one hand, laying the other over her mound of a stomach. "Tell Monsieur Khan that I will see him at once, and fetch a tea tray for our guest."

Elise nodded and left the room. Less than a minute later, a different face peered around the corner of her door— a dark, careworn face, with eyes the color of polished emeralds.

"Good morning, Comtesse," he said with heartbreaking tenderness, bowing his head respectfully.

Tears were in her eyes suddenly, and she blinked furiously to hold them back. She shook her head, sending her frizzy chestnut curls flying.

"_Christine_," she begged, her voice cracking. "Please, just Christine."

His eyes softened, and he crossed the room and took her pale hand in his coffee-colored one. "Very well…" he answered gently, "Christine." He looked pointedly at her bulging belly and added, "I don't believe I ever had the chance to congratulate you. I'm sure you will make a fine mother."

Christine was losing the battle against her tears, swallowing hard against the lump that suddenly burned in her throat. She clutched his hand as a drowning woman clings to a scrap of driftwood, and a few crystalline drops leaked from her eyes despite her best efforts to keep them at bay.

"Now, now, my dear," he whispered, patting her arm with his free hand, "What's all this for?" When she was unable to answer, he continued sadly, "If my presence upsets you so, I can easily find my way back out."

"_No!_" The Comtesse cried, clinging to his hand even more tightly. "I just… I can't… you must think… you must hate me…"

He lifted her chin with his forefinger. "Oh, Christine," he sighed sadly. "I don't think I could bring myself to hate you if I spent the rest of my life trying." Christine whimpered and wiped her face on her pillow miserably, unable to answer. Worry lines crinkled the Persian's face as he lowered himself to his knees beside her bed, his hand never leaving hers.

There was a long pause as he tried to harness his emotions and thoughts into a coherent argument. He had to be persuasive without being forceful; had to tell her the truth without shattering the fragile remainder of her soul. He was treading on eggshells, and the happiness— and life, as the case seemed to be— of his best friend was at stake. If he could salvage this relationship it would be a miracle, but he had to try.

Christine was not going to make it easy on him, either, he realized. Just as he finally thought of a gentle way to begin, she broke the silence with uncanny intuition: "You have news of Erik."

The Persian reeled for a moment, trying to recollect his bearings. He was trying to be placid, but it seemed she was not in the mood for pleasantries. Want and need were two different arenas, though; he walked a fine line. Just because she spoke as if she could handle any news he might have to give her didn't make it true. After a beat, he wisely decided against candor for the moment.

"I do," he agreed mildly, "but first I'd like to hear about you."

She stiffened a little, but her eyes betrayed her relief. "I've been well. The doctor prescribed bedrest until the baby comes, so I've grown a bit bored with the scenery." She gestured around at the room, sighing. "I read most of the time, and sleep, and eat the meals that are brought for me. Raoul visits when he's home, but he's been off badgering the poor workers about the nursery for the past few weeks, so I haven't seen much of him lately." She shrugged, trying to give the impression that it didn't pain her. Both of them knew better. There was a short silence before Christine looked up at the Daroga and asked politely, "And you? What have you been up to these past few months?"

Nadir attempted a smile. "Oh, a little of this and that. Work, mostly, and dull work at that. Tourist season has ended, so I've just been arranging repairs to some of the ceilings before the holiday season." Christine nodded, feigning interest, though it was clear she was on edge, waiting for the real reason he'd come. The Persian lowered his eyes to the fancy bedspread, rolling his tongue around in his mouth— a nervous habit. When the silence finally became unbearable, he spoke again, very softly, "I have not seen Erik since that day, either."

Christine drew in a sharp breath through her nose and looked away. Nadir continued to speak calmly and quietly, though he noted her reaction.

"But an unexpected guest turned up at my doorstep this morning with news of him. An old friend of yours, I believe— a Madame Antoinette Giry?"

The Comtesse looked up at him, her eyes wide. "Madame Giry is here? In Paris?"

Nadir nodded slowly, wet his lips, and chose his next words very carefully. "She has been for several months now. She told me to send you her best wishes and congratulations, and to apologize for not coming to see you herself. Unfortunately, her attentions were… needed elsewhere."

Thank Allah, Christine caught on to his implication, and he had no need to elaborate. Her doe eyes widened, and she breathed more emotion— loathing, love, regret, and awe— into a single word than Nadir had thought possible. "Erik…"

"Erik," he agreed softly. Christine's eyes bore into his, brimming with pain— at once longing to hear more and ashamed at her own longing. "He… well… did something brash…"

"Is he alright?" Christine choked, her body arched as if her emotional pain had begun to take a physical effect.

"He is now—" the Comtesse's pale pink lips trembled as she exhaled in relief, "—thanks to Madame Giry."

There was a brief pause in which Christine drew in deep, shuddering breaths. Then she turned her eyes to his, and her soul was stripped bare before him. "What has he done?"

He couldn't have lied even if he'd wanted to. Without so much as blinking, he answered levelly, "He took a knife to himself." Before the sentence was fully out of his mouth, Christine had doubled over with a broken, breathless scream of "No!" Determined not to be swayed until he had said everything he needed to say, Nadir pushed on, "Madame Giry found him in the Louis Philippe room. Thank Allah she did not make any detours— she discovered him soon after he fell unconscious and bound his wrists. A physician tended to the wounds, but Erik lost a great deal of blood. For a while it was unclear whether or not he would survive, but under Madame Giry's unrelenting supervision, he made a full recovery… physically, at least." He paused, swallowed, and added tenderly, "It was a shock to me too. I only learned of it this morning, and came directly here with the news."

For what seemed an eternity, Christine could not catch her breath. She sobbed violently into her sheets, rocking back and forth. Nadir didn't know what to do; he was afraid to touch her, but if she didn't draw in a breath soon, he feared she would pass out, and perhaps do harm to her unborn child…

He reached out a tentative hand to stroke her back, and she drew in several successive, shrieking gasps for air. Once her lungs were satiated, however, she collapsed again, weeping hysterically.

"Christine," Nadir soothed, trying to coax her out of her panicked delirium, "Christine, it's all over now. He will be just fine, I assure you. Madame Giry is an excellent nurse; she has taken very good care of him." The young woman continued to convulse with sobs. Nadir's tone sharpened with worry, and he barked in his best Daroga voice, "Comtesse, you _must_ calm down!"

At last, Christine made an effort to push herself upright and look at him through blurred vision. She was still trembling uncontrollably, but began to draw in ragged gasps. Comforted slightly by the fact that she was _breathing_, at least, the Persian continued with a very paternal tone, "Now, listen to me. Your tears will do no one any good, and allowing yourself to be seized by a panic attack could harm your child. Take deep breaths, and when you are calm we can discuss this matter further."

His heart physically ached as he watched the broken young woman try to collect herself. How in the world did such a precious child find herself burdened with these heaps of tragedies in such a short time on this earth? The death of both parents, a life of isolation and grueling physical work as a ballerina, the ongoing lie of an Angel of Music, the disenchantment once it was broken, falling in love with two men at once, being forced to choose between them, the successive loss of a husband and child, and when she finally glimpsed a spark of recovery for both her and Erik, it was smothered almost immediately by deceit and ingrained fear on the part of the latter. Now the love of her life had attempted suicide on her account, yet she still found the strength to compose herself and move forward. And to think, Christine had not yet reached her eighteenth birthday.

Somehow, she managed to catch her breath, and though tears still streamed freely down her cheeks, the hysteria seemed to have drained from her system. Suddenly, despite her tremendous belly, she looked very much like a small, frightened child, and it took a great deal of self-restraint for Nadir not to embrace her.

"First of all," he said, keeping his voice as calm and steady as he could, "No one blames you for leaving him. You acted wisely on behalf of your child, yourself, _and_ Erik. He was behaving like a damned fool, with no repercussions, and sooner or later it was bound to catch up with him. You did the right thing. But you and I both know that he has trouble coping with intense emotion, especially loss. He lashes out in violence, even against himself, and you mustn't blame yourself for his extreme reaction."

Christine nodded once, but looked entirely unconvinced. A fresh stream of tears dribbled down her cheek and through her parted lips, but she made no move to wipe it away.

The Persian swallowed twice, debating whether or not to tell her the next part of the story. Deciding that she would find out sooner or later, he finished tentatively, "Madame Giry fears that he might make another attempt to end his life when she is no longer supervising him. I agree that it is a very real threat. For the moment, Erik… well, we've taken the same stance as your physician and confined him to his bed. But we cannot keep him there forever, and we cannot guarantee that once he is allowed up, he will—"

"I understand," Christine interrupted softly. Her glassy eyes had moved to the window, and she stared out at something Nadir couldn't see. She drew in a deep breath and released it in a long, heavy sigh. "What would you have me do?"

"Talk to him," Nadir answered unflinchingly. "I don't expect you to return to him permanently… not after what he has done. But for both of your sakes, sit down together, have a conversation, rid yourselves of this plague of deceit, and try to find some sort of absolution."

Christine continued to stare at that invisible something far off in the distance. For a few moments, Nadir thought perhaps she hadn't even heard him, so lost was she in her own reverie, but at last she spoke, so softly that the wind nearly drowned out her fragile voice.

"I'll consider it."

**A/N: -peeks out from hiding space- So do I get to live, even though I took forever to get this up? **

**For those of you who care, I just had the freaking best experience of my life; I got to see Idina Menzel perform in her last run of "Wicked." (You might know her from "Rent"— she was Maureen. And "Wicked" itself made her famous, and with good reason) I can die a happy person now. She was fantastic, and I was thrilled. Plus, the 11 hour plane ride gave me time to finish up this chapter. :D**

**I felt really bad for taking so long to get this chapter up that I didn't want to make you guys wait for it to be edited— nothing personal at all, Jenna. ;) Sorry for any mistakes; they're entirely on my head this time. **

**For the record, I still adore writing this story, and I fully plan on finishing it in the near future. You guys have hung in there for so long… thank you SO much for your dedication and patience. Hopefully it's worth it! **


	56. Return

**A/N: Me = bad, bad, lazy, bad, uninspired person. You all = patient, kind, loving readers whom I adore.**

**-is ashamed of self-**

**I know. This was the longest updateless stretch so far. Writer's block is the Devil. I know precisely what needs to happen in this story, and then I sit down to write it and draw a blank. –sighs- But you still love me, right? –hopeful smile- Or at least this story? –offers plate of yummy cookies-**

She chose a green cloak. Green— the color of Erik's eyes; the color of spring, of new beginnings; of redemption; of hope. Green, like a filly… a snuffling foal, naïve and skittish, craning her neck to lip at an outstretched apple, too frightened to take a step forward, but too curious— sorely tempted by the proffered morsel— to scamper away to safety.

_I am certifiably mad, _Christine told herself, shaking her head to rid herself of the odd and unsettling train of thought. She fiddled with the silver-embroidered hem of her cloak, draping it around her obtrusive belly. From the opposite corner of the room the Persian watched her with an unwavering stare, and she blushed, chewing her lip self-consciously.

"Very well, then," she said so softly that Nadir had to strain to hear her. "I'm ready." Clasping her hands to keep them from fidgeting, she turned to face him. "I will be glad for your company as far as Rue Scribe, but for your own sake, do not follow me into the catacombs." Nadir looked for a moment as though he were about to protest, but he slumped in defeat after a moment, swiveling his palms in acquiescence.

"As you wish," he sighed. "But Darius and I will be waiting at the entrance in case… well, in case unforeseen circumstances should arise which require your immediate evacuation from the premises. Though I'm sure it won't be necessary," he added quickly. "It's just a precaution."

"Thank you." Christine's eyes brimmed with emotion, but her tear ducts were dry. If she could help it, she planned on keeping them that way; she had wept enough over the past four months to last an entire lifetime. Setting her jaw into an expression of grim determination, she lifted her arm with all the elegance her social status demanded. Smiling tenderly to balance her brittle pretense, Nadir stepped forward and escorted the Comtesse de Chagny down the marble staircase and into the reception foyer.

Raoul was there to greet them. Was it her imagination, or had he aged visibly in the few days since she had last seen him? His blue eyes seemed sunken somehow, and the thin, crisscrossing lines around them deepened by the moment. Though his hair and attire were immaculate as ever, there was a sort of… _mussed_ air about him.

His eyes flickered over her once, and he gave the polite, confused smile which he usually reserved for rambling, drunken lords (and opera managers) at elite social events.

"Christine," he spoke through his teeth. "Darling, it's wonderful to see you feeling so well-rested and ambitious, but the doctors were very clear in their instructions—"

"I remember," she interrupted curtly. "And I promise not to stay on my feet for long. I have unfinished business to attend to, and it _cannot_ wait another two months." She dropped Nadir's arm gently and stepped over to her husband, cupping his face in her hands. Her lips touched his lightly, and she said more for herself than for him, "I love you."

Pain exploded in Raoul's eyes, and he gripped her arms fervently. "And I love you," he swore. Christine was taken-aback and frightened by the intensity of his reaction; she might have expected such a response from Erik, but not her sweet, docile, predictable Raoul. Unsure of how to react, she forced a smile and stepped quickly back to the loop of Nadir's arm.

In the carriage a few minutes later, her brow was still furrowed in bewilderment. "He didn't even ask where we were going, or when we would be back."

Nadir shrugged noncommittally. "Perhaps he trusts you to handle your own affairs."

"That's just it!" Christine cried, wringing her hands. "He never has before."

The Persian cocked an eyebrow. "Are you complaining?"

"No," she groaned, and rested her forehead in her palm. "I just…" She let the sentence hang for a moment, as if hoping it would finish itself, and then sighed in defeat when it didn't.

Nadir's expression softened, and he spoke wisely, "You have always been an honest child, Christine, and my impression is that Monsieur le Comte is also one who bears his heart on his sleeve. Deception, double-meanings, manipulation— they confuse, startle, and entice you all at once. They are Erik's playthings; comforts, if you will, for they allow him to create his own, altered Truth. But when placed at your feet, you haven't the slightest idea how to wield them; it is not in your nature. That is why I am here— a catalyst between your Truths, if you will."

"You speak very eloquently," Christine whispered after a moment. She tried to smile. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if you could always be present to sort out these perplexing situations for me?"

The Daroga returned the smile. "I do what I can."

They spent the remainder of the carriage ride in silence. Time seemed to drag its heels as they picked their way through the rain-slicked streets; it seemed hours before Darius reined the horses to a stop on Rue Scribe.

And though it seemed to have taken a lifetime to reach their destination, suddenly Christine felt panic grip her innards— she wanted more time… just a few more weeks… maybe after the child was born?

Reading her thoughts with uncanny precision, Nadir reached forward and took her arm firmly. "If you do not go now, you never will," he cautioned, though his eyes were tender. "The choice is yours, Christine, but know that it will be a permanent one."

She sat idly for a few moments, staring at the crumbled stones that formed the clandestine entrance to Erik's domain. Her hands were white and trembling, entwined protectively over her belly.

_I could still go back, _she told herself. _I could bury Erik in the past. I could…_

But even as she argued with herself, her legs strained to lift her down and out of the carriage, moving of their own accord. Biting down a dry sob, she entered the labyrinth, letting her fingers find their way when her eyes no longer could. It was as true now as it had always been— her mind could resist, rationalize, scream and shout and drive her mad, but her soul would always obey the beckon of a gloved hand into darkness.

César whinnied in surprise and stamped his hoof on the damp stone floor as she passed his makeshift stall. Christine's heart hammered mercilessly against her ribcage at the sudden noise, and then she laughed nervously when she realized that the horse was happy to see her. She stroked his nose with a quavering smile and whispered hello, but then was off again, afraid that Erik might have heard the commotion and come to investigate. The last thing she wanted was for him to find her before she wished to make herself known, even though that seemed highly impossible— he was tied to a bed, after all, unable to sneak like a true phantom through the walls themselves, as he usually did.

A shimmering pool of candlelight grew with every step Christine took, and slowly her eyes began to adjust, and to see again. There was the lake, straight ahead, and a fork in the passage coming up. If she took the far left corridor, she would reach the damp stone stairway that led upwards to her old dressing room; the right corridor led to Erik's lair; the three passages in between held untold horrors, traps conjured by the dark side of Erik's mind that she wished to ignore altogether.

Shuddering, she stepped to the right.

Her ankles were dreadfully sore by the time Madame Giry's voice reached her ears. Aside from the occasional, short stroll through the garden, Christine hadn't left her bed in months, and her muscles throbbed with the effort of walking so far. But the stern, familiar tone of her surrogate mother's voice egged her on, and she forced her burning joints to cooperate for just a few more meters.

"_No_."

An incoherent male grumble from farther away.

"You can give me as many excuses as that brilliant mind can conjure, Erik, but my answer is still…" The old ballet mistress trailed off mid-sentence, and her face drained suddenly of its color. Her careworn hand made a vague cross over her front as Christine stepped out of the shadows. "_Mon Dieu_…"

Christine's breathing quickened, and she hastily pressed a finger to her lips in a plea for silence. Madame Giry nodded her understanding, but dropped the laundry she had been folding and ran forward to embrace the trembling girl.

"I'm here to speak with him," Christine whispered into the older woman's ear. "Nadir told me everything."

"I had hoped you would come," Giry whispered back, smoothing Christine's curls. Her eyes flickered over her old student's face in concern, and she sighed. "Oh, my dear, you've aged so much in such a short time." Her fingers grazed Christine's belly, and she forced a smile. With effort, Christine returned it. "But we can talk more later; you did not come to see me." Silently, she took the young woman's trembling hand and led her to the curtained entrance to the Louis-Philippe room. She paused and questioned Christine with her eyes, and Christine did her best to convey that she wished to go forward by herself. Nodding, Giry pecked her cheek and squeezed her shoulder encouragingly, and then resumed her laundry at a respectful distance, just out of earshot.

If she had hovered for a long while at the threshold to the labyrinth, then it was an eternity before Christine summoned the courage to step through the curtain. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, knowing that Madame Giry was watching her out of the corner of her eye, but all of the resolve that had driven her over the past hour seemed to have suddenly dissolved into thin air at the prospect of looking Erik in the eye again, of hearing his voice, of… of, God forbid, feeling the brush of his warm hand against her own…

She almost turned back, to her safe, comfortable Raoul, and her safe, comfortable life, with a safe, comfortable future in her safe, comfortable house. But just as her muscles tensed in preparation to run, the baby dealt a solid, winding kick against the wall of her womb, and she gasped in surprise and pain.

In the room just beyond the curtain, the very air seemed to crackle with electricity, as if every molecule were suddenly attuned to her presence. She stopped breathing altogether as she heard the mattress springs creak. And then there was silence— a long, deafening silence that pierced her to the core.

He knew.

And she no longer had any choice in the matter.

**A/N: La la la, dum de dum, -whistles innocently- Whaddya mean, "cliffhanger"? ****This was just… um… well… a… LOOK! SHINY OBJECT! –bolts for emergency exit-**

**I have the next chapter written already, but I was stupid and forgot to e-mail it from the computer at my dad's house to my computer at my mom's house (doh!) so I have to bribe my sister to send it to me. That'll be FUN. –cringes- These two chapters are actually out of order (not that it really matters in the grand scheme of things), but because I made you wait so long for an update, I thought I'd give you E/C (well, okay, just Christine, really) first, and then deal with the subplot. See? See? I have your best interests at heart, really I do! **


	57. Answers

**A/N: WHEW! I lost this chapter for a minute. I was in a panic trying to find it, but it's all good – found it. :)**

The cobblestone streets were slick with freezing rain. The bullet-like drops had finally ceased to hammer down upon Paris about an hour ago, yet few people ventured out into the windy October evening. A few servants ducked quickly in and out of shops, carrying armfuls of last-minute groceries for supper, and every once in a while a handsome carriage would dart past, but for the most part Jean-Claude was alone as he picked his way slowly and carefully through the slippery alleys and side-streets.

He kept his head down for the most part, the majority of his face shadowed by the hood of his cloak. His eyes, however, flitted expertly over waste bins, discarded boxes, benches, and covered doorways. The homeless didn't frequent this part of town, as the wealthy residents were known to turn a blind eye to their suffering, but this was the last place Master Raoul had seen his British mistress— just outside Doctor Janvier's office.

Jean-Claude poked halfheartedly around the office for any sign of Emily, but knew she must have moved on… she wouldn't have traveled far, though, with the horrendous weather. Halting for a moment, he tried to collect his thoughts and place himself in her shoes. The first thing he would want, were he in her position, would be to find shelter from this bitter cold. Then perhaps some warm food in her belly, and a dry place to curl up and sleep.

His intuition proved right on the money; ten minutes later, he found the British mademoiselle wedged between two trash receptacles in the back of a gourmet restaurant. She was still wearing the thin examination robe from the doctor's office, but had heaped herself with old newspapers to keep warm. In the fading light she looked deathly pale, and her lips were stained blue. She was asleep, but fitfully; she twitched and moaned incoherently every few seconds.

The old butler frowned at the pitiful sight, and quickly removed his woolen coat. Gently, he shook the young woman awake, but despite his tender touch Emily jolted awake and recoiled as if he'd clubbed her in the chest.

"Leave me alone!" she snapped, scrambling desperately to get to her feet. "I'll cry rape!"

"Easy, easy there, Mademoiselle." Jean Claude took a step back and raised his palms to show her he meant no harm. "You don't remember me, I see. My name is Jean Claude. I am the butler and friend of the family de Chagny."

Emily's glare lost a bit of its edge, but her stance did not; she stood poised as if ready to deal him a swift blow to the groin before making a run for her life. "Right… right, o' course. Well, um… what—what do you want from me, then?"

"Answers," said the butler. "And from there, we'll see." Slowly, he extended the jacket to her as if offering an apple to a frightened horse. "Come, you must be freezing. Let's transfer this little meeting to that café, just there." He gestured to the restaurant behind her. "Excellent pastries and hot chocolate, from what I've heard. Let me treat you to an early dessert, and we'll have a chat, you and I."

The woman tilted her head back and studied him with a skeptical glare. "And wha' would make you think I'd agree to tell you anything? It's none o' yer business."

Jean Claude sighed good-naturedly. "Mademoiselle, you are sitting between two waste bins on a frigid night with a child on the way and no food or shelter." He raised his bushy gray eyebrows. "At least temporarily, I am offering you both. Depending on the accuracy and earnestness of your answers, I may or may not have an employment opportunity for you with a wealthy old woman in the Loire Valley."

Despite herself, hope shone through Emily's ingrained mistrust and cynicism. "What's in it for you?"

The old butler cracked a smile. "Mademoiselle, I have served the de Chagny family for three generations. They are kind, generous folk who have treated me well. It wouldn't make a great deal of sense to neglect the most recent addition to the family, after all these years, now, would it?" He gestured subtly to Emily's rounded belly and gave a short laugh. "Raoul's grandfather would be rolling in his grave if he knew you were sleeping out in the cold with a de Chagny baby in your womb. Now come, let's get the both of you warmed up and fed."

Emily didn't have the willpower to object a third time.

---------------------------------------------

"So," said the old butler once Emily had the promised hot cocoa in one hand and a cranberry scone in the other, "What happened?"

The look of elation that had lit the British woman's sunken face at the first taste of such delicious food suddenly evaporated. She paused for a few moments, chewing a large bite of scone thoughtfully before answering, "Quite a lot. I'm not sure where to begin."

"General conversational protocol would suggest at the beginning."

Emily rolled her eyes and took a swallow of cocoa. "Well, I don't remember too well, but I think it went somethin' like this: there was darkness, and then God said…"

"Where were you born?" he interrupted, trying to hide a smile. He'd had a feeling that once she was warm and eating steadily the spark would return to her eyes; he had been correct.

Raising her eyebrows in amusement, Emily answered over the brim of her cup, "Brighton. Lived there all my life, 'til this year."

"Your occupation?"

Now Emily grinned outright, licking a drip of chocolate off of her palm. "I'm in the entertainment business."

"_In_, present tense?"

Her face darkened, her upper lip rising in a sneer. "Oh. That's right. _Was_." She sighed and patted her belly. "Evidently I'm not so entertaining with _this_ in the way. It's funny, innit? 'E's the reason I need work in the first place, and the reason I can't get a job in this whole bloody city. So you gonna 'elp or not?"

"I will give you my answer once you've told me all of yours," answered Jean-Claude, shifting uncomfortably at her crude language. "Now, how exactly did you come to find Master Raoul?"

Emily sighed and took another bite of scone. "I didn't. My… client did."

"Your client," Jean-Claude echoed, his cheeks flushing. "I see. And what was his name?"

"Don't remember," Emily lied through her teeth. "'E wasn't one of my regulars. I just happened to be paying 'im a visit on the morning 'e found Raoul."

"Where? Where did he find him?"

A shiver raked its way up Emily's spine at the images conjured by memory of that fateful morning. Charlie's face, red and beaded with sweat from the burden of carrying Raoul's limp body… seaweed-tangled hair, blue lips, salt and sweat-stained shirt, mottled, bruised chest…

"In the water," she answered softly, goose bumps shooting up her limbs. "Clingin' to a piece of driftwood."

"Merciful Lord." Jean-Claude bowed his head and rubbed his eyes. "They said everyone on board had drowned."

"Not Raoul."

"No. Thank God, not Raoul."

They sat in silence for a few moments, broken only by the gentle slurping sound as Emily sipped her cocoa.

"So you… your client… _someone_ took him in?"

She nodded. "Whassisname did. I stayed to 'elp 'im. 'E called a doctor, but the old man said 'e wouldn' survive the night. Pneumonia and 'ypothermia, 'e said. I 'ave no idea 'ow he pulled through it, but… 'e did. I fed 'im and kept a fire goin' and all… and, I don't know, 'e just… got better."

"You saved his life, then," Jean-Claude spoke slowly and softly.

Emily stirred her cocoa with one finger, sucked it clean, and shrugged, keeping her face down so the old butler wouldn't see her eyes mist over. "Aye, I suppose I did."

"And somewhere in the process, you fell in love with him."

She looked up, startled, her lips jerking helplessly as they tried to form words. "No, I – well, I mean, I…" Her eyes burned, and she looked away. "Even if I 'ad, that's none of your business."

"Mmhmm," Jean-Claude murmured neutrally, clenching and unclenching his folded hands. "Well, my dear mademoiselle, I might have guessed that much of the story. But the next part is where I draw a long, gaping blank. How on earth did you manage to get out here, and why? And with the burden of a deathly ill man, to boot?"

Emily's brown eyes glazed over, and her heart began to pound. _Blood… liters and liters of blood, gushing from the neat slice through Charlie's neck, staining the knife tucked into my corset… _Her voice, however, was calm and composed as she spoke with the confidence of a well-trained actress:

"I knew 'e was French, o' course. So I figured the best place to start searching for his identity would be in France." She shrugged. "We sailed to Perros-Guirec with the salary I'd set aside over the years, and took a train into Paris from there. And then…" She blushed, wrung her fingers, and debated for a long while whether to tell Jean-Claude the next part or not. After a few deafening moments, she gave in. "Well, I 'ad to make money some 'ow, or 'e'd die! So… so, I found a new client… a wealthy, rich, drunk bloke, out with 'is friends…"

Jean-Claude's eyes widened. "Philippe?"

"Philippe," she agreed, trying not to tremble. _Another murder._ "'Ow could I refuse? I offered myself to 'im for free if 'e would take care of Raoul and… and pretend to be 'is brother."

The old butler clutched his temples with one shaking hand, sitting quietly for a long time before responding, "I cannot decide whether this is the work of God or the Devil himself… but _some_ divine being must have held the strings to this procession of events. Nothing like this could have happened by coincidence."

Emily swirled the cocoa around in her cup, as she wasn't sure her stomach could handle any more just now. "Call it what you like, but that's what 'appened."

There was a stretch of silence, longer than any of its predecessors. Jean-Claude stooped over, rubbing his eyes and temples, and Emily fidgeted with her hands, her hair, her examination robe.

When the old butler finally did speak, his voice was gruff and weary, and he did not raise his head to look at her. "Very well, then. You've told me what I needed to know… and however much of the story you omitted— and I sense much of it is missing— it was enough. Now, to my end of the bargain. There is a woman in the Loire Valley: an old friend of mine, the Duchess Nicole Bouverot. She is getting on in years now, and requires a handmaid to see to her personal needs around the house. Her husband, God rest him, passed on last month, leaving his hefty inheritance entirely to their son. The boy has agreed to staff his mother's estate, and that's where you come in, if you desire the position."

Emily's hand fell to her belly. "But what about…"

"You will be allowed a few days off in order to recover from childbirth, and then you shall resume your duties as usual. The babe will be welcomed in Nicole's household, fear not; she has always had a great love of children."

If there was one lesson Emily had learned over the years, it was never to trust in a good thing. She watched Jean-Claude with mounting skepticism as he described what appeared to be the solution to her every worldly problem… all but one.

"Does Raoul know about this?" she asked acutely, her eyes narrowed.

The old man stiffened, and shook his head. "No. And if he found out, there would be hell to pay."

"I see." Emily pursed her lips, fighting desperately to keep the spark of hope from igniting into a blazing fire within her. "Then I arrive at the same question again: what the 'ell is in this for you?"

"Peace of mind," Jean-Claude answered wearily. "The whole household is in an uproar, and you are starving on the streets. Two children will enter the de Chagny within the year, and the parentage of _both_ is in question." He glanced sternly at Emily's belly, daring her to object. She didn't. "To be perfectly frank, Emily, I wish to remove you from the picture, and in doing so, restore order and, with any luck, _happiness_ to the family. But I recognize that you have done a commendable deed in saving Raoul's life, and in repayment I shall try my best to secure a happy existence for you and your child as well. So…" He raised his eyebrows in question. "What do you say?"

**A/N: I love Jean Claude. Probably because I picture him as an elderly Liam Neeson, whom I just adore.**


	58. Absolution

**A/N: I think it's a bad sign that almost every one of my recent author's notes has begun with an apology. :-/ And yet, you're still reading…**

**My excuses this time are in my profile, haha. Of course I didn't abandon this story! Never ever!**

He decisively ignored the scent of fresh roses carried on the drafts that blew across the underground lake. Likewise, he disregarded the second set of footsteps in the room just beyond the curtain – a hindered gait; irregular; limping. He dismissed the hushed whispers as Madame Giry's final descent into madness, and who was to blame her? Months of solitude, save the company of an ungrateful, sardonic, bedridden monster… no wonder she had taken to talking to herself.

Never mind the fact that the second voice was most assuredly that of the young woman he had trained from childhood.

_This is all just a detailed manifestation of a hope that should have been smashed to a pulp months ago, _Erik chided himself bitterly as he stared up at the stone ceiling above his head. Such a deplorable emotion, hope — it had caused him more anguish and heartache than any creature should have had to bear in a lifetime. Even now, he could not rid himself of the parasitic emotion: every time the wind whistled through the caverns, he strained to listen, imagining footsteps; every morning he imagined he would wake to find chestnut curls splayed across the pillow beside him; every day he waited, imprisoned in his useless body, his heart continuing to beat only because hope, the most devastating plague ever to befall mankind, still thrummed through his veins, no matter how many times he tried to purge it from his shattered soul.

He dared to dream, despite all evidence to the contrary, that perhaps that fleeting glimpse at – Happiness? Fulfillment? Dare he say love? – could be restored. He'd tasted Heaven, and, by his own misdemeanors, had slid back down the slippery slope into Hell. All he could hope was that an angel of mercy would stretch out an ivory hand to pull him back up again.

_You don't deserve mercy, _he reminded himself, and shut his eyes, willing these new delusions to dissipate as all of the others had. She would never return to him; she had said as much herself, signing away her life with him in the curving letters of her husband's title. With uncharacteristic calm, Erik had followed suit, attempting to uphold her wishes as he, too, signed away their life together in two red lines along his wrists.

Of course, fate had never allowed Erik to sidestep agony before, so he shouldn't have been surprised when it intervened in the form of Antoinette Giry. He was trapped in his own body, unable to die, but certainly not living. And so, until the day that stubborn wench decided to stop shoveling food and water down his throat, he was stuck in bed, a true living corpse. All he could do was wait for either death or Christine, neither of which seemed forthcoming at any time in the near future.

He opened his eyes and stared at the stone ceiling above his head, counting the webs of cracks and crevices for the umpteenth time that day. It was a poor distraction; within seconds, his attention slipped back to the imaginary woman on the other side of the curtain.

_What would she look like?_ he wondered. With a dull, throbbing pain in his chest, he remembered… the arc of her forehead, the depth of her eyes, the curve of her jaw… The months away from her had done nothing to blur the image that had been burned onto his heart. Erik let his head drop limply to one side, as if the movement could somehow force the memory to leave him. The scent of her perfume was even stronger now, mocking him. He could almost have sworn he heard her soft breathing just a few meters away. Never had the memory of her been so _alive_… burning, present… painfully real. His chest heaved and he tossed his head, his face etched with pain.

"Go away," he mouthed silently at his own tormented mind, "Go away… leave me alone."

He almost didn't hear the footsteps above the protesting squeaks of the mattress and the thrashing of the bed sheets. For a split second, he dismissed it as another wicked prank of his decaying senses… but then…

His eyes burned like green flame in the direction of the red curtain. A shadow— a silhouette— flickered, almost invisible, on the other side of the thick fabric. He was still as death; he didn't breathe or blink, and even his heart seemed to shush so as to allow his entire being to focus on the far corner of the room.

A sound… a sharp intake of breath, was stifled quickly, but not quickly enough to escape him.

Erik knew that sound; he had branded it in his memory deeper than any musical note. With practice, he had taught his fingers to produce the sound from a creature far more beautiful and intoxicating than any musical instrument. On dark, eerie nights, he had drawn it through a child's chattering teeth with haunting songs of the dead. A few years later, the sound would hitch in a young woman's chest when her Angel's voice would suddenly fill her room, catching her off-guard. Soon enough, he had learned to coax the sound through swollen red lips as his gloved fingertips grazed her bare skin.

Even in the darkest state of mental decadence, Erik would have recognized the sound of Christine Daaé's gasp. And quite suddenly, he realized that none of it was a delusion. His tormentor and friend, pupil and lover, greatest blessing and most vile plague, stood just beyond the fragile barrier at the edge of the room. A vicious storm of emotions ripped through his body, rendering him completely paralyzed. He had no idea how to react to her presence, so he simply laid there, his muscles straining to hold his heavy head up as he stared in deathly silence at the curtain.

After several moments passed uneventfully, he realized that he needed to breathe or he would black out. He choked in a lungful of air, and his shuddering muscles collapsed. For a minute his eyes swam, and he saw small, blurred explosions of color and light. He squeezed his eyes shut to focus his vision, and when he re-opened them, he found himself staring up into the tear-filled brown eyes that had captured his soul.

Christine's right hand extended halfway, as if she had meant to smooth his forehead reassuringly, but balked at the last moment.

"Erik?" she whispered brokenly, tears dripping from her wide eyes. He stared, mesmerized, at the silver droplets, watching their slow descent down her smooth cheeks. Had she always been so beautiful? Her ivory skin seemed almost to give off an ethereal glow. Another month condemned to this bed, and he might have looked for wings.

A thousand thoughts raced through his head – a thousand things he wanted to say to her, to beg forgiveness for, to tell her how much he loved her. His lips parted, and his breathing steadied, but suddenly his tongue forgot how to form words. All he could do was continue to stare at her and hope that his eyes could portray all that his mouth would not.

In his mind, he had played out this scene a million times. Christine would grant him one last audience, and stand regal and tall, as her station demanded, in a far corner, while he fell to his knees and proclaimed his undying love for her and confessed to all of his misdemeanors and humbly asked her forgiveness. Depending on the level of optimism he possessed at the time of the delusion, Christine would either forgive him and follow him willingly back to the lair, or she would shun him and call for two strong servants to drag him away to the nearest asylum. Always, though, he was the one on his knees, weeping pitifully at her feet.

He didn't know what to do, therefore, when suddenly Christine collapsed at his bedside, her shoulders jerking with unbridled sobs.

"What have I done to you?" she cried, her head falling limply onto the mattress just a few centimeters from his fingertips. "_Mon Dieu_, _mon Dieu_, forgive me… forgive me, Erik, please… please, forgive me!" When he continued to sit silently, in utter shock, her weeping mounted to a hysterical crescendo. "It was never supposed to be this way! We were supposed to be together forever!" She choked and gasped wildly for breath between every heart-wrenching sob. "And then the baby and… you didn't… we couldn't! I did the only thing I could think of and I… I thought you… GOD, Erik, I am _not worth dying for_!"

At last, his senses organized themselves enough to push forth a single word: "Christine."

The young woman sucked in several deep, shuddering breaths, and raised her swollen red eyes to meet his. She continued to shake violently with suppressed sobs, but he could see her visible effort to try to rein in her hysteria.

It was as if a vital lever had been flipped somewhere in his brain, and suddenly the eloquence that had once defined his character returned to him in a flood. He chose his words carefully, and spoke in the calm, reassuring voice he had used to soothe her as a child.

"You were right to leave me, Christine." He saw the argument rise on her tongue before she had a chance to voice it, and cut her off swiftly, "No, you had your turn. Let me speak." The authoritative tone worked; she shut her mouth, though her eyes still objected. He sighed deeply before continuing, "You were always wise beyond your years. You would have been a fool to stay with me in your condition."

For the first time, he allowed his eyes to drift downward on her, to the unmistakable bulge that made up the majority of her form. Her breasts, too, had swelled with pregnancy, giving her the full figure of a woman twice her age. No longer was she the slender, youthful ballerina he had once known, but a real woman… and soon to be mother. _Very_ soon, if her figure suggested anything.

The distraction provided Christine with a brief gap in which to speak. She blurted out childishly, rashly, "But I loved you. I still do."

Erik threw back his head and laughed to hide the film of tears that sprang to his eyes.

"Don't laugh!" she barked, her own voice thick with emotion. "I loved you, and I loved our baby. Of course I left. I was afraid and confused…"

"Of course," he echoed, his own voice empty.

"That's not what I meant, Erik, and you know it." She was stung; it showed in every premature line of her face.

"I know precisely what you meant," he answered. He looked away and swallowed a few times. Once he was sure he could continue without further interruption, he said very softly, "I was never meant to be a father, Christine— genetically or psychologically. Your precious Raoul was bred to sire and raise the _darling_ little ones. It was the natural choice. Of course, your first priority must be your child. Unless, of course, he is a hideous monster like his biological father, in which case the kindest thing to do would be to drown him before he takes his first breath."

Christine slapped his left cheek— hard.

"Never," she whispered, her voice trembling furiously, "speak of your child that way again." Suddenly she straddled him, full belly and all, and gripped his face firmly between her pale hands. "Listen to me. _Listen!_ Your mother was a damned fool to have abused you so. You are human, and you are a kind, gentle soul, and _I love you_. If I could only make you understand that this—" She brushed her fingers over the bubbled flesh of his face, "—means nothing to me… oh God, Erik, why can't you see that? I am not your mother. I am not the rest of the world. I was an idiot of a child, and I was frightened of you once, but I know better now. The only thing that frightens me… frightens me so much that I left you… is that you cannot love yourself. I want my child— _our_ child— to know unconditional love, no matter what he looks like. If you could only look me in the eye and swear to me that you would _try_ to love him, even if he has your face, I would…"

His voice choked out the word before his mind could catch up. "Stay?"

"Yes!" she cried, throwing her hands up in the air as if the fact had been evident all along. She looked him in the eye and her expression softened. Slowly, she slid off of him, but stayed close, curling up on the bed next to him. "Yes, Erik, I would." Very gradually, she sidled closer, until her face was pressed into his chest, and her tears dripped down his skin. His arms and legs were still bound, and the inability to hold her began to slowly drive him mad.

"Christine," he said a bit more sharply than he had intended. She looked up, her eyes still wet, and he made sure his voice was much gentler as he made his request. "In the dresser drawer behind you, there is a dagger." Her eyes went wide, and her breath caught in her chest. He held her gaze and asked quietly, "Do you trust me?"

He saw the conflict rage behind her eyes. For all she knew, he would drive the knife into her womb and kill the source of their problem— or perhaps kill all three of them and end all problems to come. But finally, she gave a very slow nod, and reached into the drawer. She began to sob when she saw the blood-crusted dagger and the note beneath it, written in her own hand.

"My wrists," Erik said calmly, indicating the cloths that bound him to the mattress. "If you would be so kind?" He was afraid for a moment that Christine would either cut off his hands or one of her own with the way her fingers were trembling, but she managed to slice neatly through both of the makeshift binders without incident, and without being asked, moved to the cloths that held his ankles down as well.

Erik was more than slightly displeased at the weakness of the muscles in his arms and legs; he could barely lift them after months without use. Trying not to let the aggravation slip into his tone, he asked Christine to put the dagger away and then return to his side. She did so obediently and visibly deflated in relief. With her help, Erik managed to wrap his arm around her shoulders, keeping her close.

It was hours before it finally hit him that his delusion had become reality— his angel was truly beside him, her curls splayed on the pillow, the scent of rosebuds lingering over their bed. The revelation was enough to cause his throat to close and his eyes to overflow. For the first time since reading her letter on the Comte de Chagny's stationery, Erik wept brokenly, clinging to the woman in his arms with every ounce of strength left in his deteriorated muscles. They rocked back and forth, gently, and he could not help but notice the rounded flesh of her belly pressed up against him.

Wiping Christine's tears, he reached down and tentatively laid his free hand over his unborn child. The baby chose that moment to roll over in its mother's womb, and Erik's eyes went wide in wonder and fear. Without removing his hand, he looked up into Christine's gaze, and saw there an emotion that he knew by name, but had never seen in his own mother's face.

Trembling, he pressed his lips to hers, and whispered very softly, "Very well, _mon ange_... I'll try."

His angel grinned, and they fell together, sobbing and laughing, kissing deeply, releasing the need that had built with every night spent apart. When his strength failed him, Christine held him up, and they moved slowly, gently together, long into the night.

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The horse's nostrils flared and her ears pricked to attention long before the figure emerged from the labyrinth. Nadir and Darius were prepared for the worst, hands on their rapiers, but they both immediately relaxed when a face became visible in the dying sunlight.

"Well?"

Madame Giry lifted her skirts and stepped gracefully over the last of the rubble before coming to a stop before the carriage. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes danced. "Mission accomplished, gentlemen."

The Daroga slumped in relief, letting out his breath in a whoosh of air. "For now, that is," he answered with a slight laugh. "But that is very good news, indeed."

"Indeed," Giry agreed with the hint of a smile. She dipped in a curtsy and made to take her leave, but before she could take three steps, the Persian's voice halted her in her tracks.

"Oh… Madame Giry?" She turned to face him, one eyebrow quirked inquisitively. "I… wondered if perhaps you might join me for a celebratory dinner and a drink, to honor your handicraft in the matter?"

Giry lifted her chin thoughtfully, then answered, "_Our_ handicraft, you mean." The half-smile returned, and she stepped back toward the carriage. "I would be honored."

In the shadows, Darius's eyes sparkled knowingly, and without needing to consult his master, he slipped away quietly in the opposite direction.

**A/N: What do you think, guys? ECers should be ecstatic, and I think I'll probably be running for my life from RC fans. I can never make EVERYONE happy. But I mean, come on, Nadiry should satisfy everyone! Why has no one thought of this? –pokes Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, and ALW- It's a match made in heaven! (ahaha, maybe I'm the only one who thinks it's cute, but hey…)**

**Honestly, I can't believe people are still reading this story! I am HORRIBLE! But hopefully this chapter makes up for the lag a little bit. **

**P.S. No, this is NOT the last chapter. Still got a few more left in me… Dun dun dunnn. ;)**


	59. Premonition

**A/N: Hello, beloved readers! Back again (late, as usual) with another chapter. I started this one a while ago but just got around to finishing it. I lacked inspiration, and then I found it. :) **

He waited all night.

At first he paced the foyer restlessly, his bloodshot eyes darting from the grandfather clock in the corner of the room to the dark, drizzling night beyond the golden glow of the mansion's front steps. Periodically, a servant would shuffle out of a back room to ask if there was anything they could do. Each time, he dismissed them angrily and threatened to fire the next person who bothered him. Though the household was dark and still, he knew his hired help had congregated in the kitchens to whisper giddily over crude coffee mugs about their mistress's sudden departure on the arm of a foreign gentleman.

Just after four in the morning, Jean Claude stepped quietly into the foyer and simply stood there, watching his master pace the marble floors like an agitated cat. Just as quietly, he left the room for a few minutes, then returned with a bottle of brandy.

"Raoul," he said calmly but firmly, addressing his master informally in order to jar him from his catatonic state. It worked; the young man ceased his tireless rampage and stood, trembling slightly, his eyes strained and his posture defeated.

"I am a fool," whispered the comte. His gaze rested on the elderly butler, but Jean Claude knew that he wasn't being addressed directly. "One would _think_, after all the times I've salvaged a relationship by the skin of my teeth, that it might have occurred to me that one of these days…" He swayed on his feet. "One of these days, I would fail utterly, and lose everything and everyone I hold dear."

Jean Claude stepped forward with a swiftness that defied his old age, catching his master under the arm just as the younger man began to swoon. "Easy, easy there," he muttered, helping his master limp into the next room. He eased Raoul onto a plump couch, draped a blanket over his trembling form, and poured the comte a glass of brandy.

"Drink this. You'll feel better in a few minutes," he said, and poured another glass for himself before settling in an armchair opposite his master.

Raoul winced as the hard liquor burned its way down his throat, and gave an involuntary shudder. His eyes watered, but he was far beyond weeping.

"She won't come back," he murmured after a few minutes of silence had passed.

Jean Claude tilted his head in mild surprise. He had expected as much, but had not anticipated that his master would come to terms with the fact in such short order. Taking a small sip of brandy, he pressed forward carefully, "Do you have any idea where she might have gone?"

Raoul's eyelids suddenly seemed weighted with lead, and he allowed them to slip shut. He rested his head against the back of the couch and was silent and still for a long time. At last the butler stirred, mistaking his master's pensiveness for sleep, and only then did the comte answer softly, "I've always known. That first night, in her dressing room, I could see it in her eyes. She glowed when she spoke of him. He was her obsession, and she became mine." He took another swallow of brandy, his eyes still closed. "I knew from the very beginning that her soul had already been claimed. It was maddening to see her consumed by a fable while I, flesh and blood, stood before her, wanting her..."

The old butler stared unblinkingly, wondering whether the brandy had taken effect quicker than anticipated, or if perhaps there was more sense in this ramble than anything else his master had uttered in the past two years.

"It was a sickness. I saw the sham where she saw magic, and I ripped her from the dream before she was ready. She saw reason, of course, but her heart never recovered. Even in our marriage bed I saw the distance in her eyes. She was never with me, not really. It never mattered how fiercely I loved her–" His handsome face twisted in rage and grief. "—she always belonged to _him_."

A heavy silence fell over the room as Raoul stared at the floor, lost in memory, and Jean Claude stared at Raoul, trying to piece together the dissonant snippets that had been furiously hurled at him in the past few seconds. Only one thought came to mind, and it was not a pleasant one – but eventually he decided it needed to be voiced, so he braced himself and spoke with determination.

"Perhaps your love, too, was driven more by the power of imagination than reality."

Raoul's blue eyes snapped upward in surprise, as if he had forgotten the butler's presence entirely. "What do you mean?"

Jean Claude raised one hand in preemptive defense for the words he knew his master would find insulting. "Simply that… just perhaps… you have always been more in love with the _idea_ of Christine than the woman herself."

"Absurd," Raoul said sharply, scowling.

"Is it?" the butler asked quietly, rubbing his arthritic fingers. "Is it really so much of a stretch to believe that, because you realized that you couldn't have her, she suddenly became the object of your desire?"

The glower did not leave the comte's face, but a storm began to brew behind his ocean blue eyes. Clanking his empty brandy glass down on an end table, he suddenly flung the blanket away from himself and rose to his feet. "I will not hear any more of this nonsense, from you or anyone else!" He clenched his fists at his sides and glared down at Jean Claude for a few seconds before regaining his composure. "I shall retire for a few hours," he said stonily. "Send a servant to wake me if there is any news. Good night."

"Good night, sir." Jean Claude climbed to his feet respectfully, his manners and station remembered. He waited until Raoul had stomped all the way upstairs and slammed his bedroom door behind him before sighing deeply and departing the room himself, shaking his bald head.

-------------------------------------------

A few minutes later, he butler shuffled through the swinging kitchen doors, and was met by twenty-some pairs of prying eyes.

"Well?" said an audacious scullery maid, speaking for them all.

Jean Claude glared around the room and sat heavily on a wooden stool, feeling every one of his seventy-three years throb in his arthritic bones. "Oh, off to bed, the lot of you," he grumbled. No one moved.

"Three francs says the Persian man bought her for his harem," one of the stable boys said with a cocky grin.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Nic," said the stable boy's friend, knocking him playfully on the head. "Not _everything_ revolves around sex."

"Nahh, she's gone overseas to wed a prince. I heard it from a man who knows a man who sells bread to the Persian's servant," offered another maid.

"You're all bloody fools! She's carrying the Persian's bastard, so she's off to birth the ruddy child and kill it, then snatch up a white one from an orphanage to pass as the master's…"

"ENOUGH!" roared Jean Claude, banging both fists down on the countertop. Everyone fell silent, either smothering giggles or looking guilty. It was unlike the butler to raise his voice, and he was obviously livid— his eyes burned their way around the room, and he shook slightly with rage. "I will not have this slander of our mistress's name in this house. I _will not have it!_" His lips pressed into a firm white line for a few seconds, and then he sighed wearily and buried his face in his hands. "Go to bed," he reiterated, his voice barely above a whisper. "Unless you can be of any help, please, just… go back to your quarters. You've only a few hours before dawn, and there are chores to be done come morning."

This seemed to be enough incentive to break up the late-night gathering. The servants parted and trudged back to their rooms wordlessly; they had been chastised into silence, and would not likely test their boundaries again – at least not in Jean Claude's presence.

At last, only one servant remained: a young girl, no older than twelve or thirteen. She sat on a stool in the far end of the kitchen, fiddling with her fingers. Jean Claude watched her silently for a few minutes, and noted that he, too, was being watched, though the child was subtle in her observations. It took him a few minutes to place her.

"You, child. What is your name?"

"Colette, monsieur." She was soft-spoken, and her brown eyes shone with the intelligence of a careful listener.

"You were entrusted with the care of Mademoiselle Emily."

The girl tilted her head in a delicate nod. A thousand questions suddenly burned on the old butler's tongue. Just exactly how much had this child seen and overheard? What did she know… what valuable information could he glean from her? What was she willing to share, and to what purpose and whose benefit? Careful not to frighten her, he adopted a more casual posture, reclining slightly and resting the back of his head against the wall behind him, though his watchful gaze continued to scrutinize the young maid.

At long last he decided to proceed openly. "I must tell you straightaway, child, that I have grown weary of secrecy and evasion. I am too old to keep up with those games." The girl said nothing, but relief rippled through her dark eyes. "Therefore, my dear, if you have something to say, I would suggest you do so, and straight to the point."

"I am glad for it," said Colette. She leaned forward slightly, her fingers still wringing themselves. Her voice was soft, and Jean Claude had to strain his old ears to catch each precious word. "I see much and speak little, monsieur. Mademoiselle Emily wears a shroud of deception, but her intentions toward the master are benevolent if slightly…" she swallowed, choosing her words carefully, "twisted."

She paused, watching to see if he caught her meaning. He narrowed his eyes slightly to indicate that he didn't. "That is to say, monsieur, that I have no fear for the wellbeing of Master Raoul or his offspring. But…" And here she lowered her voice even further, casting a nervous glance around the room to make absolutely sure she would not be overheard by the wrong ears. "I will say, monsieur, that I know her to be capable of the most foul deeds. Her hands have been stained by more than one man's blood." For a moment it looked as if she would name the dead, but she balked at the last moment, her face blanching.

"I see," said Jean Claude, his heart pounding against his frail ribcage. _A murderess?_ His mind reeled. He had taken Emily for many things, but this… _this_ was most unexpected. It was clear that the child had more to say, but now he was not entirely sure he wanted to hear it. Steeling himself for what was to come, he urged her on with his posture and his gaze.

"I overheard her praying one night," Colette continued, looking as if she'd just seen a ghost, "asking for forgiveness. The transgressions she listed, they… I have never been so frightened in my life." As a testament to her words, the child shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. "She did not know I was in the room, and I pray to God she never learns, but… one thing…" She was heaving deep breaths now, rocking slightly, her eyes haunted and bleary. "… one confession shook me above all, monsieur. I learned that she… that Mademoiselle Emily…" Her voice dropped far below a whisper, and Jean Claude demanded that she repeat herself. Deathly white and trembling from head to toe, the girl repeated breathlessly, "She lent herself to Master Philippe… right before taking his life."

The butler's heart ceased to beat for a few endless moments, but as his vision began to blur he remembered to breathe. Crossing himself, he rasped hoarsely, "Mary, mother of God…"

"You mustn't tell a soul, monsieur!" Colette begged, her dark eyes wide. "If word were to get back to her, she'd know it was me who—"

Catching his breath, Jean Claude raised one hand in assurance. "Your confidence is well-placed, mademoiselle. My loyalties are to the family de Chagny, and I would do nothing to incur their harm, or that of a faithful servant."

The child relaxed only slightly, but her color did not return. "Nor would I," she said. "I only wish to make sure that the same fate does not befall another innocent victim."

Jean Claude frowned. "Surely you do not mean Master Raoul? Did you not just assure me that her intentions toward him are benevolent?"

"I did," said Colette. "And I maintain that she will not spill so much as a single drop of his blood. Her love for him is fierce, monsieur. That is what frightens me." She swallowed and leaned forward again, her eyes moist with unshed tears. "She has never hesitated in the past to be rid of anyone who stood in the way of her relationship with Master Raoul, and I do not believe she will start now." Her voice dropped to a faint whisper, and he saw her lips form the words that his ears could not quite make out: "I fear that her next victim may be Mademoiselle Christine."

**A/N: Smart little cookie, that Colette. I love plot twists. Really, I do. Doesn't show, does it? –looks back at the past 58 chapters and throws head back with diabolical laugher-**


	60. Surrender

**A/N: I got nothin'. Except the promise that I would not abandon this story… and I didn't! It just, erm, took me a little longer than expected to get this chapter written. Haha… ha… hee… hum. **

**I actually don't expect that any of my original readers are still with me on this… newcomers might get sucked in though. :) Hi newbies! Welcome to Ev! And if any of you are actually long-time readers who have stuck with me through thick and thin, and years without updates… WHOA, I commend you so much it isn't even funny. I bow at your feet! BOWWWWW!**

**To be honest, this story got pushed WAY to the back burner, as life interfered and demanded my attention. But in my friend's car the other evening, "Music of the Night" was randomly one of the songs on a CD mix, and I just had this moment where I fell in love all over again and went "DAMN… damn, I need to finish my story!"**

**Thus, I bring you the (very, very, very, VERY) long awaited Chapter 61 of Evergreen. **

**--------------------------------- **

"I'm coming with you."

"No," she said, wrapping a blue shawl snugly around her shoulders. "You're not."

"That was not a request, Christine." Erik clenched his fists in agitation and tried unsuccessfully to sit up. "We know nothing of his stance at this point – what if he should refuse to let you go? What if he locks you in your room, claims you've been brainwashed or possessed, has you committed to a madhouse? I'd be forced to slaughter the entire household and then move on to the security team at the asylum…"

Christine smiled, running a wide-toothed comb through her tangled curls. "Oh, Erik…"

"You can't possibly believe he'd just let you walk away, knowing full well that you've chosen me, a _monster_ and a _demon_…"

"I never said it was going to be easy," she sighed. "Or pleasant, for that matter. But I can't just leave without an explanation. He needs to know the truth. It's the least I can do for him." Erik snorted at that, and Christine fixed him with a harrowing glare. "Stop it! How many times must we go over this, Erik? As much as you despise his very existence, and wish him all of the world's ills—"

"A few of Hell's, too," Erik murmured under his breath.

"—Raoul is my oldest friend, and he is very dear to me. I cannot and will not abandon him without an explanation." Her voice and eyes softened as she stared at her own reflection in the vanity mirror. "He loves me, Erik. He may resent my choice, and do everything in his power to convince me to change my mind, but when all is said and done, he will accept it. He wants what is best for me…" She sighed again, running her fingers absently over her swollen belly. "It will just take some convincing to persuade him that the best thing for me is no longer _him_." Her large brown eyes shifted upwards to Erik's skeptical face, and stared at him imploringly. "Please, just… let me do this. Alone. I promise, you have nothing to fear from him."

Erik's expression flickered, and a deep sadness crept into his emerald eyes. "But I do, Christine… I do. Today one of us will emerge with the love of our life and a child on the way. The other will have lost everything. The stakes are unbearably high, and twice I have emerged on the losing end. You must forgive my pessimism this time around."

Gently, Christine lifted his chin with her finger and stared deeply into his eyes. "And yet, both times I have wound up in your arms. I'm a slow learner, you see." She smiled and winked at him, trying unsuccessfully to boost his spirits. "They say the third time is the charm."

"I find that the word of this mysterious 'they' rarely applies to me."

"Well, trust in _my_ word, then." Christine took his hands in hers and gave them a firm squeeze. "Let me tend to this unfinished business, and at the end of the day, we will all be able to breathe much easier."

Green eyes stared into brown for several long moments before Erik slumped in defeat. "And in the meantime, I might just suffocate." He sighed deeply. "Very well. Be on your way then. The sooner you leave, the sooner you return."

Grinning, Christine pecked him on the lips and rose to her feet. "You'll be fine. Just… don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"I make no promises." He gestured Christine down to him and kissed her more deeply this time, trying to ignore the sinking feeling of dread that gnawed at his stomach, as if it were the last time their lips would ever meet. When she finally pulled away, he was trembling.

"I love you," he told her, trying to keep the desperation out of his tone.

"I love you too," she responded gently, brushing a stray hair from his eyes. "And I'll be right back, I promise."

-----------------------------

"I can do this," Christine murmured under her breath, her eyes wide as they drank in the magnificent sight of the de Chagny mansion. The stone steps that swept upwards to the front door had always seemed to her like the stairway to heaven. Twilight had fallen, and an ethereal glow from the front parlor spilled out into the evening, only intensifying the image. She sucked in several deep breaths and smoothed her hair, makeup, and skirts before taking her first fateful steps forward. In her peripheral vision she spotted dozens of grubby faces pressed against the windows in the servants' quarters, staring brazenly down at her. Their prying eyes did very little to calm her quaking nerves, but she bravely swallowed her anxiety and proceeded up the stairs with all of the dignity and grace that her position demanded of her. She was, after all, still the Comtesse de Chagny, and she would be damned if she made a fool of herself in front of the servants.

No sooner had she reached the top of the stairs – slightly out of breath, ankles searing from the extra burden of a child molded against her delicate frame – than the slightly stooped figure of Jean Claude appeared at the door, whisking it open for her. His eyes were kind as ever, but undeniably weary, and Christine felt a stab of guilt course through her. She hadn't thought of the impact that her unexplained absence must have had on the gentle old butler. Despite the irritation that he must have had with her, he offered a tired smile and stooped a bit lower in a bow.

"It is good to have you home, Comtesse."

She nodded, returning the gesture. "I hope my extended absence has not caused the household too much stress," she offered seriously. "It was certainly not my intention."

"Of course not," the butler replied, though it was uncertain which part of her apology he was addressing. He raised one bushy eyebrow and studied her intently for a moment before guessing accurately, "I presume you wish to speak with your husband before retiring for the night?"

Christine felt the color rise in her cheeks, and it was all she could do to nod, her eyes trained on the floor like a chastised child.

_So much for maintaining my dignity, _she scoffed at herself. _Cowering before a butler like a dog beneath its master's whip. Some Comtesse I make._

After several beats of silence, Jean Claude continued hesitantly, "Would… you like me to escort you to his chambers, Madame, or…"

"No," Christine choked out. "No, that will be all, thank you."

The butler nodded silently before turning on his heel and heading for the kitchens. Alone in the foyer, Christine continued to stare down at her flickering shadow in the candlelight for several long moments. She tried to compose a speech in her head – a stunning piece of oration that would convince Raoul that she was certain in her decision, and that nothing he could do or say could sway her. Once she had drafted a confident-sounding outline, she took another deep breath, squared her shoulders, and made her way up the grand staircase to the northern wing of the mansion – to the master suite where she thought she would find her husband.

She paused for only the briefest of moments at the closed doors, her fingers resting on the golden knobs. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to picture Erik sitting at the piano with their beautiful baby in his lap, guiding the child's tiny fingers over the keys. The image gave her strength, and with a resolute sigh, she pushed the doors open…

Only to find the bed still made, the lights all dimmed, and her husband nowhere to be found.

Frowning, Christine shut the doors again, and spun around to examine the other rooms upstairs. Perhaps he was in his study? She tiptoed down to the adjoining room, only to find it empty as well. After fruitlessly searching the bath, her own room, and the music room, a thought finally occurred to her, and her heart sank.

Sure enough, a dim glow seeped out from the cracks around the nursery's door. Her resolve withered, and she felt her chest constrict painfully. It was all she could do to stand there, unsure of herself and cursing her decision to come here alone, until the child rolled over in its sleep, reminding her gently of her purpose.

She would just have to immerse herself in the icy water all at once, she decided – no sense in drawing the agony out.

She knocked quietly on the solid wooden doors, and listened for a response. When none came, she gently pushed the doors open, and squinted in the light. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust, but when they did, she quickly found the figure of her husband and longtime friend. Raoul sat on the edge of the daybed in the far corner of the room, his back to her, his head in his hands, staring at the empty crib in front of him.

Christine tried to deliver the strong, confident speech that she had been practicing, but found that the words were trapped in her throat. The stony figure at the far end of the room did not so much as turn his head to acknowledge her presence, although she was sure he knew she was there; the pounding of her heart was deafening.

"Raoul," was the one word that shuddered past her lips. Still, he did not move. She felt her heart shatter in her chest – she had never seen him like this before. When faced with a conflict, Raoul was always the first in motion, the first to devise a plan, the first to race brashly onto the battlefield, sword at the ready. He had retained the endearing arrogance of a schoolboy, believing that he could fix anything; "defeat" was not in his vocabulary. She had expected him to fight tooth and nail for her upon her return: she had expected heated debate, multiple attempts to convince her that she was wrong; screaming, storming, fighting valiantly to the end. But this… she could have never imagined this Raoul, broken and stony… defeated without putting forth a single ounce of effort. A twinge of desperation constricted her chest, and she tried again, more forcefully this time, "_Raoul_."

As if in slow motion, he tilted his head slowly in her direction, though his eyes never moved from the cradle. "I didn't expect you to return," he said quietly.

Swallowing, Christine took a step into the room and gently shut the door behind her. "Raoul, I owe you an explanation…"

Her husband snorted and turned his face away from her again. "An explanation. I told you that first night, Christine, and I meant it: whatever happened when I was gone, when you believed me to be dead… I was willing to turn a blind eye to it." He pursed his lips for a moment, staring at his hands. "In the event of my death, I would never expect you to stop living your own life. I would fully expect you to love again, to remarry, to have children, to move on." Silence pounded in the room between them, and still he refused to look at her. "I could see it in your eyes, Christine, that you already had. I was fooling myself to believe that I could come back from the dead, and that with my return, your history, your life in the meantime, could simply be erased."

"I wanted it to be," Christine whispered, and finally his ocean blue eyes met her tear-blurred brown ones. "It would be so much simpler…" Her voice broke, and she dropped her gaze, unable to view the pain written so clearly in her husband's eyes. "I have always cared for you, Raoul. It was never my intention to be disloyal, or to hurt you. Please, you must believe me that much."

He stared at her in silence for a long time before answering softly, "I do believe you, Christine." He tried to smile, to laugh, but it caught in his throat and emerged as a choked sob. "But none of us can help whom we fall in love with… can we?"

"Oh Raoul," she sighed, streams of tears trickling down her cheeks. In a few strides she was at his side, and gingerly she lowered herself onto the daybed next to him. Sniffling miserably, she reached up one hand to smooth his sandy blonde hair, and then she laid her heavy head on his shoulder, nuzzling into the warmth of his embrace. He accepted her into his arms and sighed deeply, and for several lingering minutes the two of them merely sat there in shared silence.

It was Christine who finally broke that silence, her voice barely a whisper. "I hate this," she breathed, aware that her tears had soaked through his collar. "I hate being the one who has to hurt you. You are my very best friend and my husband. It was never supposed to be like this." She pulled back just far enough to meet his sad gaze. "What can I do?" she pleaded. "Please, tell me what I can do. I can't leave you like this. I can't. I won't." Her breath had caught in her throat, and she choked, drawing in quick, shallow gasps between sobs.

Tenderly, Raoul brought his fingers to cup her face, shushing her gently. He took her into his arms again and rocked her like a child, squeezing his eyes shut against the world, savoring those last minutes with her. In those precious seconds, it was just the two of them again, as they had always been – the rock and protector, and his beloved Little Lotte.

When her heart wrenching sobs had finally dwindled to the occasional sniffle, Raoul broke the silence between them, speaking with as much conviction and steadiness as he could manage. "I loved you from the moment I first saw you on the beach, the pretty little girl with the wind in her hair and the red scarf tumbling into the sea." He ran his fingers gently through her chestnut curls, still rocking her gently as he spoke. "You are the kindest, most generous woman I have ever known. I have always admired that about you. You give so much of yourself, and expect so little in return." Drawing in a deep, trembling breath, he pressed his lips to her temple. "And now it is my turn to do the same." Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled back, holding her at an arm's length and staring deeply into her eyes. He swallowed hard, sucking in several more steadying breaths before continuing, "I would be a criminal and a fool to keep you here like a caged bird when your heart belongs to someone else."

Christine had begun to cry uncontrollably, unable to speak between the spasms that wracked her oxygen-starved lungs. It was the best she could do to shake her head furiously, trying to make him understand that breaking his heart was the very last thing she ever wanted.

"I thought I could fix it," Raoul continued, visibly trying to steady himself. "I am not a blind man, Christine. I saw it in your eyes when you first spoke of him… that night in your dressing room. And again, at the masquerade. And again, in the cemetery." His voice was rising now, becoming angrier. "And again, in the chapel. And again, in that blasted opera, with his hands on you, I saw it, Christine!" He had begun to tremble, and Christine scooted backwards in fear, placing one hand instinctively on her belly. Raoul seemed to catch the gesture, for he lowered his voice and buried his head in his hands. "Even after we were married, I knew. You were distant, lost… as if part of you was still trapped in the cellar with that monster—"

"He is not a monster, Raoul," Christine snapped, and was immediately surprised by the strength of her conviction.

Raoul turned his gaze to her, and in it she saw an ocean of hurt and confusion. "He lied to you, Christine. For years of your life, you believed him to be this… this specter, this Angel of Music. He found your weakness and exploited it. And as soon as I tried to interfere, to save you, he was after me with a noose."

Christine swallowed hard, lowering her gaze and nodding. "I know."

Her answer seemed only to intensify his hurt, for he looked away from her and slumped in defeat, shaking his head. "I will never understand, Christine," he said quietly, solemnly. "If I live to be a hundred years old, I will never understand."

"I don't expect you to," she answered earnestly, reaching out a hand to touch his arm. "I don't understand it myself, Raoul. My mind and my heart have never agreed. In my head I know you are the right choice. And I listened to it. I came back to you. Everything was the way it was supposed to be. But…" she trailed off, unsure of how to explain.

Fortunately, it seemed that Raoul needed no explanation. "But you were miserable," he finished, a sad sort of finality creeping into his tone. Slowly, he looked up at her, and ran a finger delicately down her cheekbone. "You didn't smile any more. The Christine I remembered was always smiling."

"There were happy times," Christine reminded him, desperate to wipe that look of utter sadness from his eyes. "Picnics and sunny afternoons…"

"I remember." He tried to smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Carriage rides through the park, walks along the Seine." He nodded to himself, and his gaze softened. "Our wedding day."

"Yes," she whispered, a fond, sad smile lifting her own lips. "Yes, we must always remember those times."

"I will cherish them always," he whispered in reply, and leaned forward to place a soft kiss on her cheek. Then, with a deep sigh, he settled back and looked her up and down once. "More than anything, I want you to live every moment of your life with that kind of happiness. If you can look me in the eye and promise me that this is what will secure that for you… that you… and the baby… will be safe and well cared for, and happy… then…" He sighed, looking as if his words were costing him a great deal of effort. "I will trust your word, and send you off with my blessing."

She took his hands between her own, kissed each of them once, and stared deeply into his eyes, willing him to see the truth behind her words. "He fills a place in my soul that I did not know was empty," she said. "He is aggravating and temperamental and honestly the most stubborn man I have ever met. But…" She sighed, shrugging her shoulders helplessly. "I am in love with him, Raoul. When I am with him, I feel that I am home… that I am safe, and loved. And I think the moment he holds his baby, he will fall in love with the child and be the best father there ever was." She noted the way that Raoul winced as she admitted the baby's true parentage, but there was no element of surprise in his expression whatsoever; he already knew, she was certain.

After several beats of silence, Raoul sighed deeply, and seemed to deflate as the air poured out of him. "Very well then." Slowly, reverently, he slipped the golden band off of his ring finger, and placed it in Christine's palm, closing her fingers around it with his own. With trembling lips, he kissed her closed hand, and very softly, like the touch of a butterfly's wings, brushed his lips against hers for the last time. A single tear slid down his handsome cheek as he rose and walked over to the window, his back turned to her. "Goodbye, Christine."

-------------------------------------

**A/N: I plan on writing all day tomorrow and Thursday, so expect the next chapter VERY soon. I'm not kidding! Just watch!**


	61. Recovery

**A/N: This chapter is a new addition – I figured if there had to be a chapter to show the passage of time, it might as well be a good fluffy E/C chapter, right??**

"On three, then. Ready? One… two… three!"

Groaning through his clenched teeth, Erik lurched up on unsteady legs, clinging to Giry's shoulders for balance and support. His jade eyes glittered in triumph when he managed to stay upright for a full ten seconds.

And then, as usual, his knees buckled under the weight of his torso and he toppled forward into the ballet mistress's arms.

"That was better!" Christine trilled enthusiastically from her spot on the divan, where she was popping chocolate-dipped radishes into her mouth.

"That was _pitiful_," Erik corrected, glaring venomously at his own incompetent limbs.

With a grunt of effort, Madame Giry grabbed him under the arms and hoisted him back up onto the swan bed. Once he was sprawled out on the crushed velvet again, she sighed, wiping her brow. "No one said – this would be – easy," she reminded him around gasps for air. "It's no picnic for— me either – you know."

"Then we are agreed," he snapped. "So why don't we just call it good for the day and—"

"Erik," Christine said severely around a mouthful of radish. "If you don't rebuild your muscles, the _baby _will be walking before you are!"

He snorted, but Madame Giry was quick to chime in, "She's right, you know."

Erik swallowed the retort that rose immediately on his tongue, glancing sideways at Christine. Upon his insistence that there were much better ways to firm up his muscles, his fiancée had winked and assured him that she would do her part to help him _recover_ once Madame Giry left, but he had to promise to "be a good boy and behave himself" in the meantime. Only with the promise of the evening's infinitely more intriguing "physical therapy" did he bite his tongue and steel himself for another fall as Madame Giry helped him stand for the umpteenth time that afternoon.

To the women's credit, he did slowly begin to stand for longer and longer intervals of time as they repeated the vexing exercise – after a few more tries, he managed to stay upright for a good seventeen seconds before falling limp like a damned rag doll. He was more than a little surprised by Madame Giry's ability to hold his considerably greater weight, and when he told her as much, she simply raised her eyebrows at him and pointed out that she had been a dance instructor for fifteen years, and a ballerina before that; if she couldn't bear the weight of a dance partner, she would have been out of the business years ago.

As the minutes ticked by, eventually the exercise became a battle of wills: Erik was too proud to admit that he was exhausted from his exertions, and Madame Giry was too proud to admit that her own muscles ached from lifting him up repeatedly. By the time Christine intervened, they were both red cheeked, drenched in sweat, and trembling visibly from the strain.

"I think that is enough for today, you two," she said, popping the last of the radishes into her mouth and brushing her hands off with an air of finality. Neither Madame Giry nor Erik had the wind or the energy to argue, so long as they didn't actually have to admit to being tired. With one final heave, Giry shoved Erik unceremoniously onto the bed and then leaned back on her heels, wiping her cheeks and forehead with the back of her wrist.

"Well," the ballet mistress panted, "If there's one thing – that can be said about – you, Erik – it's that you certainly don't – lack – perseverance."

"Likewise," he countered, refusing to be patronized.

Rolling her eyes, Christine stood – an effort that had become increasingly difficult as her body swelled to accommodate the child growing within her – and linked her arm with Madame Giry's. "I must thank you again for everything, Madame. And although Erik is too arrogant to say it—" She shot him a look "—I know he appreciates it, too." Christine's brown eyes softened. "You saved his life. We owe you everything for that. And now you are gracious enough to stay and help in the recovery process…" She kissed her mother figure's cheek gently. "What would we do without you?"

"I shudder to think," Giry said, winking one blue eye at the younger woman. She then returned the kiss and cast one final appraising glance at Erik. "Make sure he drinks several glasses of water. The doctor insisted that he remain hydrated."

Erik opened his mouth to bite out a scathing retort, but another warning glance from his fiancée caused him to shut it again obediently. Crinkling his nose in a barely-suppressed snarl, he muttered instead, "You and that meddling Daroga deserve each other."

Despite herself, Giry's cheeks flushed an even brighter scarlet, and as Christine walked her out toward the labyrinthine tunnels, Erik heard her muttering feverishly – "And what precisely is he insinuating? Monsieur Khan and I met only briefly and it's certainly a stretch of his wild imagination to suggest that—"

Christine's gentle voice cut in swiftly, assuring her that Erik simply meant that the ballet mistress and the Persian shared kindly, nurturing demeanors toward him. Giry shut her mouth with a too-quick "Well, of course that's what he meant!" and departed hastily, clearly eager to end the embarrassing conversation.

When Christine re-entered the bedroom, her amused smirk was poorly masked by an expression of forced displeasure. "Oh, now you've done it, Erik. Turned the most level-headed woman I know into a babbling, blushing lunatic."

Schooling his features much more successfully into an innocent, neutral expression, he teased, "Well at least now we know where little Meg gets it, hmm?"

At that, his fiancée burst into giggles, then clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle them, trying her hardest to scowl. She strode over to the bed and climbed onto it next to him, swatting him on the arm. "You watch your tongue. That happens to be my best friend you're insulting. I thought I told you to behave yourself, monsieur."

He widened his eyes at her, taking her hand in his own and placing gentle, teasing kisses on the inside of her wrist. "Oh, but I tried so very hard…"

"You did not," Christine snorted.

He smiled devilishly against her skin and began to kiss his way up her arm. "Very well, then…you're right. You're absolutely right; I have been a very naughty boy, Christine, and I think it only fair that you should punish me… punish me _mercilessly_…"

Their mouths had barely entwined in a fevered kiss before the insistent ring of a bell indicated the presence of a visitor on the lake. Erik ignored it, moaning and pulling Christine more tightly against him, but his fiancée squirmed and succeeded in wrenching herself free from his grasp.

"Speak of the Devil," she said, her eyes dancing and her lips deliciously red from his kisses, "Our friend the Daroga seems to have decided to pay us a surprise visit."

"He should know better at this hour of the night," Erik said with a petulant growl, leaning forward on trembling abdominal muscles to try to lure her back down into his embrace. "With any luck, perhaps he will take a hint for once, and just go away…"

Christine lifted her chin defiantly and shied away, giggling like the girl she was. "Wishful thinking, my love. I'll go put the tea on and send him in to see you when he gets here."

Glaring, Erik crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back again. "Kindly remind him to keep his hand at the level of his eyes if he dares to do so."

"Hush," she said, swatting him on the arm again before bustling off toward the kitchen. She paused only briefly, snatching up the Punjab lasso as an afterthought, before stepping through the curtain and out of sight.

He kept his arms crossed menacingly until Nadir entered the Louis-Philippe room a few minutes later. Whatever warm greeting had been on the Persian's lips fell short as he caught sight of Erik's irritable expression.

"What did I do?"

"I suppose it has never occurred to you," Erik grumbled, "To let us know _before_ dropping in uninvited?"

Nadir raised his eyebrows. "Coming from you?"

Erik sighed sharply, choosing to ignore that well-played retort. "What do you want, Daroga?"

"I cannot merely visit for the opportunity to chat with an old friend?"

Erik's green eyes narrowed to slits. "You are here… uninvited… when normal people are _in bed_… to make _small talk_?"

Slowly, realization dawned on Nadir's face, and a blush darkened his features. "Oh… oh, I see… my apologies, Erik, I didn't think that in your condition, you… that is… well, never mind all that. Here." He reached into his cloak and procured a small paper bundle, secured tightly with twine.

"What is this?"

"White leather," the Persian answered, confusion marring his brow. "Did you not ask me to purchase a square meter from the tannery?"

"Ah yes," Erik said with a nod, taking the dagger from the drawer in his end table and slicing neatly through the twine and brown parcel paper. He examined the white leather with an appraising eye, running his elegant fingers over the hide.

"Fashioning a new mask for yourself?" the Persian guessed. "I was under the impression that Christine didn't like you to wear it any more."

"It's none of your business," Erik snapped more harshly than he had intended. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his friend wince slightly.

"Very well, Erik, I can take a hint. I'll take my leave, and send a note the next time I intend to drop by…"

Immediately Erik regretted his childish attitude, and held his hand up in a gesture for the Persian to wait. "Oh, sit down, you insufferable old coot. If your life is so uneventful as to deprive you of anything more amusing to do at eight o'clock on a Friday night than to chitchat with a reclusive ex-opera ghost, far be it for me to deny you that one small entertainment."

Smiling, Nadir sat down on the divan and shook his head. "Well that just makes me sound pitiful."

"The truth hurts, my friend."

The Persian opened his mouth to fire off another retort, but Christine chose that moment to re-enter the room, balancing a tray of tea and biscuits, so instead he leapt gracefully to his feet and took it from her, gesturing that she should sit on the divan in his place. Christine blushed prettily and kissed his cheek.

"What a gentleman," she cooed, taking the proffered seat and a cup of tea from the tray.

Erik tried not to let his jealousy get the better of him – it was killing him, slowly but surely, to be tied down by invisible chains to this godforsaken bed. Bitterly he mused that she used to consider _him_ to be quite the gentleman; he would hold doors open for her, carry her when her own legs were not strong enough, bend over backwards to cater to her every whim, be it a cup of water or a house by the sea. It was such a silly thing, to be jealous of the offhanded compliment, but it stung him deeply, for it reminded him how truly helpless and burdensome he was to her at the moment. Spurred on by his own stubbornness, he kicked the sheets off of him and planted his feet on the ground, summoning all of the strength in his decayed body and preparing to lurch to his feet. He'd be damned if he had to lay helpless in that bed for another minute…

Both Nadir and Christine's eyes went wide as they realized too late what he was going to attempt to do. They both managed to cry out his name in surprise, but neither moved fast enough – with one heave, Erik was on his feet, swaying on the spot, one hand clamped on the end table for support. Nadir set his tray immediately on the armoire and ran over to grab him, but one glare from Erik's red, scalding gaze halted him in his tracks.

His muscles burned like white fire, and began to quake violently under the strain of his weight. Tears of pain sprang to his eyes, but he bit them back. He would not cry, and he would not crumple to the floor like a newborn colt…

A small, cool hand came to rest on his back, but he refused to turn to look at the owner.

"Erik." Christine's voice was calm, but gently imploring. "Erik, look at me."

He ignored her for a few seconds, hissing through his teeth as the pain in his legs reached a boiling crescendo. Damn it, damn it, he was going to fall… he was going to fall…

Shaking uncontrollably, he turned his head and looked down. His angel lay on the swan bed, her curls splayed across the pillow. One of her hands still rested at the small of his back, and she reached out the other to him. "Come here, my love. Come lay beside me."

His knees began to buckle. For a few more seconds he resisted the unrelenting pull of gravity against his worthless muscles. Then, at last, he gave up the fight in favor of falling limply into his angel's arms. Exhausted, pushed beyond the limits of his corroded body, he curled up against her and buried his face in her neck so that the Daroga would not see his frustrated tears. He sensed, rather than saw, Christine and the Persian exchanging glances.

"I think now would be as good a time as any to take my leave," Nadir said quietly, adopting a tone of forced protocol. Erik knew that the Daroga wished to berate him for making such a stupid move, but knew to hold his tongue for the time being.

"Thank you for coming, Monsieur Khan," Christine whispered, her fingers moving in small, soothing circles through Erik's hair. They both listened until the Persian's booted footsteps faded into silence, leaving them alone once more.

His angel waited patiently for an explanation that Erik could not even begin to form. His body still quaked violently, and his soul was no less turbulent. It was probably an hour that the two of them lay entwined in silence, as his demons raged and his heart pounded against hers. He might have lain that way for days had Christine not eventually spoken, misery dripping from every syllable.

"This is about Raoul, isn't it?"

Part of him was relieved that he didn't have to voice the source of his agony; the other was deeply ashamed of himself. He knew better. He knew what Christine had gone through on his behalf. He had held her for hours during that night, nearly a month ago, when she returned from the de Chagny mansion, Raoul's wedding ring clutched in her pale hand. He knew what he had asked her to sacrifice to be with him instead of the life of leisure and luxury that her childhood friend would have afforded her. He also knew that she had given it all up willingly and freely, and returned to his arms twice now.

But even still… even still, he felt the constant need to compare himself to her precious de Chagny boy. Though Christine seemed content to let that part of her life go, it seemed that Erik simply could not. Casual moments in their relationship would turn instantly into a fierce, unspoken competition. He needed to be smarter, more entertaining, a better cook, more attentive to her needs, a better lover.

He needed to prove to_ himself_ that Christine had made the right choice – that he really was the better man.

And being stuck in this godforsaken bed like a helpless infant was not helping his cause in the slightest.

He wanted to explain this to her – to make her understand his desperation, but it seemed the only thing he could do was lash out in frustration. "Oh, of course, Christine. Everything is about Raoul, isn't it?"

She took him by the shoulders and held him at an arm's length, staring into his eyes. "That wasn't fair, Erik."

"Life is unfair," he said, but his features softened slightly in remorse. Sighing, he amended, "Besides, that was only partially sarcastic. That's the point… that's the whole point."

"I am trying to understand," she said, and he saw in her eyes that it was true. She deserved an explanation. Swallowing his pride, he tried again to answer her, and this time, mostly succeeded in keeping the sarcasm from his tone.

"It's just the bitter pangs of doubt, Christine," he answered slowly. At her wounded expression, he quickly clarified, "Not of you… never of you, love. I just…" Deflating, he sighed, unable to look her in the eye any more. "Despite everything you must think, I know that Raoul de Chagny is a good man… and that he was a good husband. He took care of you, did he not? Nurtured and loved you, made sure your every worldly need was attended to."

Christine did not dare lie to him. "He did," she answered softly, sadly.

Erik gritted his teeth as he forced himself to voice his deepest fear. "I just… I just fear that you must compare me to him, and think that I can never give you what he could. Jesus Christ, just look at me. A helpless, bitter wreck… unable to care for you now, when you need it more than ever." His sad eyes moved, unbidden, to the swell of her belly. Swallowing against the tears that now threatened to overwhelm him, he whispered brokenly, "Sometimes I wonder… I wonder if it might have been better if I had perished that day."

"Enough!" Christine cried. Tears had sprung to her own eyes, and she shook her head fiercely as she gripped his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her again. "I will require you to stop speaking about the love of my life that way, monsieur," she said sternly, and backed up her words with a solid, passionate kiss. Erik crumpled in her arms then, unleashing the sobs that had been pressing painfully against his chest. Christine sat there, continuing to shake her head as if she'd just heard the most ridiculous statement of her life. He thought he might have laughed, had he not been so shaken. Instead she shushed him gently and stroked his back until his tears subsided. When he was silent and still in her arms, she continued, "Any young woman in France would have been thrilled to be Raoul's wife. He was thoughtful, loving, and unwavering in his devotion. He showered me with gifts and attention. Despite the vicious rumors about us, he paraded me around at all the balls and social events as if I were the most beautiful, exquisite woman in the world. And he was so excited to be a father, he could barely stand it. He spent months mulling over plans for the nursery. _Months_."

"Is this supposed to be helping?" Erik interrupted miserably.

"Let me finish," Christine insisted. "The point is, Erik, that yes, Raoul was a wonderful husband, and I cared for him dearly. It nearly killed me to leave him, knowing that it was breaking his heart, but…" She sighed. "Even in that beautiful house, with a full fleet of staff to care for me, and a husband who loved me… I was never more miserable in my life. During the days I wandered the house aimlessly, and the nights… god, the nights were hell. Your eyes glittered from every shadow, and I wondered what I had done to deserve your cold apathy. I was so lonely, and I remembered the warmth of your skin and your arms around my waist and it nearly drove me mad. I dreamt of you, and woke up in a sweat, wanting you. I could never look at Raoul in the morning, because I felt that I had spent the entire night betraying him, if only in the confines of my mind. He was so good to me, yet the only thing I could think about was _you_."

Erik was silent for several long minutes before he asked in a small voice, "But _why_, Christine? Why?"

He was like a child begging for his parent's reassurance, and Christine seemed only too happy to give it to him. "Because I am in love with you," she answered, pressing a tender kiss to the mottled ridge of his right cheek. "I love the way you always think you're right, even when it's blatantly obvious that you are wrong. I love the sounds you make when you sleep. I love your music, your passion, your intelligence. I love the way your hair falls into your eyes no matter how many times you push it aside. I love falling asleep in your arms after we have made love, listening to your heartbeat. I love the way you look at me when you think I can't see you."

It was too much – he covered her lips with his own before she could speak another word. Erik was not used to being complimented, and the loving tenderness and wide-eyed honesty with which Christine had spoken was enough to rip open the seams that held his soul intact. He was drowning in love with her, and wished he could express it as eloquently as she had, but all he could do was kiss her, crystalline tears falling from his eyes onto her cheeks, and hope it was enough.

When Christine collapsed against his chest an hour later, sweat-slicked and gasping for breath, he realized, with a twinge of smug satisfaction, that he seemed to have done the trick.

Despite himself, he smirked and whispered against her ear, "Tell me, Christine, did your husband ever love you like that?"

"It's not a competition, Erik," she panted, rolling her eyes. But after a few more seconds he felt her lips smiling against his chest. "But if you must know… no… he never loved me like that."

Erik fell asleep grinning.

**A/N: -rolls eyes and smiles- Men and their silly, silly pride.**

**And yet, it's kind of endearing, isn't it? I love Erik for all of his insecurities and wounded pride issues. **

**For the record, I, for one, would not mind helping Erik with his "physical therapy." Imeanwhat?**


	62. Son

**A/N: Once upon a time there was an authoress who was very sorry for her horrible lapse between updates of a story that had gone on for well over two years. On the upside, though, 28 months divided by 60 chapters comes out to a nice, healthy 2.14 chapters per month… which is an above-average update speed for stories this long. :D**

**ImeanI'mnotindenialoranything.**

The duchess settled slowly into the warm water, stirring the poufs of bubbles absently with her gnarled fingers. A deep, contented sigh rattled through her lips as some of the pain seemed to seep from her arthritic bones into the steaming pool. She was vaguely aware of her handmaid's calloused hands working soap and oils through her thinning gray hair, but her milky blue eyes didn't see anything anymore.

"This bath is heavenly," the duchess murmured. "I would stay here forever, if I could."

"Aye, ma'am," said her handmaid. "The doctor did say the water was good fer your bones."

The elderly woman decidedly refused to respond to that – Dr. Delaine was a loony old coot, intent on telling her that she was too old and fragile to partake in any of the activities that had been so enjoyable to her in her youth. Blindness, schmindness; her fingers, twisted as they were, still knew how to hold a paintbrush or pick out a tune on the piano or mould a pot from wet clay.

"Per'aps milady would like to take tea in the bath today?" The handmaid's voice brought her out of her bitter reverie, and the duchess nodded.

"Yes, yes; I think I would like that."

The duchess heard the handmaid struggle for a few seconds to get from a kneeling position up to her feet.

"Are you quite all right, Emily?" the elderly woman asked, a slight frown deepening the wrinkles in her face.

For a few seconds, the duchess heard nothing but quick, hitching gasps, and when Emily finally answered, her voice was tight with pain. "Just fine, Milady. I will fetch that tea for you…"

The duchess narrowed her eyes keenly; she was old, but not stupid. "It's the child, isn't it?"

And, for the first time in the two months Emily had been working for her, the duchess heard panic in the handmaid's voice. "I… I think my water just broke, ma'am."

"I see. Well, slow down, child, slow down. Take deep breaths. Forget the tea. Go fetch Suzette from the kitchen. She's birthed six of her own children; I should hope she'd be able to help you deliver yours."

"What about you, milady?"

The old woman smiled faintly as her fingers resumed their dance through the dying layer of bubbles. "What are a few more wrinkles to me? Go, now."

------------------------------------------------

"You just _left_ her in the bathtub? An old blind woman?" Suzette roared, shaking a wooden spoon at Emily.

"She told me to—"

"Madame Nicole thinks she is much more capable of taking care of herself than she actually is. You know that, Em! What if she slips and bangs her head? What if she takes a wee in the tub? Then we'd have to empty the whole tub, draw more water, heat it up…"

Annoyed, hormonal, and in a great deal of pain, Emily cried, "I'm 'avin' a _baby_, you insufferable bitch!"

Suzette paused, mid-shake of her spoon, looked Emily up and down once, and said, simply, "Oh. Well, why didn't you say that in the first place?"

The portly cook spun on her heel, cupped her hands around her mouth, and bellowed, "NEW GIRL! COME HERE!"

A few seconds later, a gangly teen scampered into the kitchen, breathless and wide-eyed. "You mean me, madame?"

"No. The _other_ new girl," the cook snapped sarcastically. "Of course you. What's your name again?"

The child cringed as if she expected to be beaten. "Colette, madame."

"Right, Colette. Madame Nicole is upstairs in the bath. Go tend to her." There was a brief pause in which the girl stood, frozen in place like a rabbit at the end of a musket.

"NOW!" Suzette commanded, and the child took off at a run. Shaking her head in disgust, the cook turned back to Emily and explained needlessly, "New girl. Just got her this morning. All right then, come with me."

-------------------------------------------

Emily arched her back and let out a long, low moan of agony. Six hours into her labor, the contractions had become more intense and more frequent, wringing her body mercilessly every two or three minutes. Already her dress and bed sheets were soaked through with sweat, and she was shaking uncontrollably.

"It 'urts," she gasped once her muscles relaxed. "I don't think I can do this, Suzette."

From between her legs, the cook mumbled coolly, "Not much choice now, duckie; the runt's pushing his way down, and fast."

Emily tried to peer down over the boulder of her stomach, but collapsed in exhaustion when her trembling abdominal muscles refused to cooperate. "Christ, 'ow much longer can this possibly take?"

Suzette snorted disdainfully. "Consider yourself lucky. With my first, I was in labor for twenty-two hours. You've got it easy compared to what plenty of other first time mothers have to go through."

"_Easy_?" Emily howled, but at that moment her womb seized with another contraction, and she could do nothing but yelp in pain. By the time her muscles had relaxed, the baby was pressing down hard on her pelvis, and she felt the unrelenting urge to push.

"Whoa, whoa, Emily, wait… wait for it. With the next contraction, I want you to push. _Wait_ for the contraction; it'll be much easier. There's a girl. Easy does it."

"Will you stop _sayin_' that? There's nothin' _easy_ about this!" Emily bit out before her body seized with the next contraction and she sucked in a deep breath, pushing down on the solid weight pressed against her pelvis.

"Good! Good girl, keep going. Keep pushing. Five more seconds… four… three… two…"

With a gasp for air, Emily fell back against her pillows, sweat dripping down her face and chest. "It 'ardly moved!" she wailed.

"Centimeter by centimeter, duckie, that's the way they come. What'd you think – they shoot out with one push?" The cook chuckled, patting Emily's knee. "No one said this would be quick."

Four pushes later, however, and Suzette's eyes widened in excitement. "I see 'im! I see the little bloke coming. Another push and he'll crown. You might feel some burning at this part. Hurts like hell, but he needs to come out. All ready? Let's have this baby."

Emily didn't have time to respond before the next contraction hit, and she ducked her head and pushed with all her might. A scream of pain escaped through her clenched teeth as the baby's head squeezed its way out of her body.

"Look at all that hair!" Suzette remarked, but Emily was too exhausted and in pain to do anything more than gasp for air. "All right, duckie, last push."

"I can't! It fuckin' '_urts_. I can't. I can't!"

"You can and you will. Here we go, Em. Too late to close your legs; should have thought of that nine months ago. One more push!"

Feeling as though she was being ripped open at the seams, Emily complied. Her eyesight blurred and for a moment she was sure she would black out. Vaguely, she was aware of the fact that the baby had slipped out of her, relieving a great deal of pressure from her pelvis. Her womanhood throbbed and her whole body began to shake violently, but she was alive.

A few seconds later, the piercing cry that rang out from the foot of the bed assured her that the baby, too, had made it. It was enough to snap her out of her semi-conscious state, and she opened her eyes, trying to crane her neck to see her child.

"Ten fingers, ten toes," Suzette murmured happily as she wiped the baby off with a wet towel. "Pink skin, and strong lungs. I do believe you just birthed yourself a healthy baby boy." With a grin, she wrapped the baby up and handed him to his mother. "Congratulations."

Emily took her son into shaking arms and simply stared down at his tiny red face, unable to do anything else for several minutes. He had her nose and dark curls and his grandfather's sturdy hands and feet. But everything else… the chin, the forehead, the cheekbones… were distinctly de Chagny. Her heart stopped for a moment at the realization that the baby's appearance and birth date could lend themselves to either of the brothers. She had hoped that his looks would define him immediately as the son of either Raoul or Philippe, but no such luck.

And then her son opened his puffy eyelids, and beneath them she saw two matching orbs of the deepest, most beautiful ocean blue – and there was no doubt left in her mind.

-------------------------------------------

"What're you gonna call him?" Suzette asked as she rinsed her hands in a tub of hot water.

Emily looked up from her son's sleeping face, shock registering in her weary features. "Aye, 'e'll need a name, won't 'e? 'Adn't thought of that." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "A good English name, methinks. Somethin'… I dunno, royal-soundin'. I 'ave 'igh 'opes for this little one."

Suzette snorted contemptuously, but made no further comment on the subject. "What about George?"

"No. I 'ad a … client by that name once. Didn't like 'im."

"William?"

"Was a dirty drunk back in Brighton."

"Charles?"

"_God_, no!" Emily's face colored and she held her son closer, as if by keeping him close she could protect him from the looming cloud of certain damnation associated with that name.

"John?"

"Too common."

"Richard?"

Emily scowled. "That was my father's name."

Sighing, the cook threw her hands in the air. "Oh, for the love of God, Emily, just pick a name!"

The young woman sat quietly for a few minutes, stroking her baby's tiny fist. "When I was small, my mother— God rest her— used to read to me every night before bed. She was one of the few women I knew who could read. 'er father taught 'er when she was just a child. Prized 'is ability to read above everythin' else, and passed it on to 'is daughter, and then she passed it on to me. She read the most amazin' stories, too – of dragons and princesses and knights in shinin' armor. _Ivanhoe_ was my favorite. Christ, I loved that story. My poor mother must 'ave read it to me a 'undred times, and it's not a short novel, either. I always swore I would name my first son Wilfred after the main character… but now that I think of it, 'e was a real pain in the arse. Abandoned 'is country and father to gallivant off to the Crusades to pillage and plunder; 'eld no respect for the knightly code. 'E was a knight in shinin' armor, but 'e 'ad no respect. 'Is father was the respectable one. King of the Saxons. Noble. Unwavering. Loyal. High-spirited, aye, but good humored too. Everythin' a good man and ruler ought to be."

Suzette raised her eyebrows, resting her chin in one hand. "And what on God's green earth does that have to do with anything?"

"That king," Emily reiterated, her eyes lighting up. "That's what I want my son to be. Steadfast and noble." She kissed the baby's head softly, and whispered so that only he could hear, "Like your father. I want you to be everything I'm not."

"What was the king's name?" Suzette asked.

Emily closed her eyes and dug back into the deep recesses of her mind, to a time and a place she rarely allowed herself to visit. She was warm and safe in her mother's lap, curled up in bed with a book and a glowing fire in the hearth.

"_Lady," said Cedric, "this beseems not; were further pledge necessary, I myself, offended, and justly offended, as I am, would yet gage my honour for the honour of Ivanhoe. But the wager of battle is complete, even according to the fantastic fashions of Norman chivalry."_

"Cedric," came Emily's soft reply. In his sleep, the baby sighed contentedly, and his mother smiled.

--------------------------------------------

**A/N: Alright, alright. –takes Punjab from your hands and wraps it around my own neck- I know. I don't deserve your love and undying affection. I AM A WOORRMM! But this worm is nearly finished with this story. So even if I continue to take forever between updates, it'll be done relatively soon. Just hang in there! You've been reading for this long already, might as well finish it out, riigghhtt? –dimples-**


	63. Endeavor

**A/N: WHOA. Well slap me with a pancake, look at all the originals! I'm honestly stunned and so overwhelmed with gratitude, thank you so much for staying with me.**

**I have long stopped doing personal review replies, but Mominator (as I flail ecstatically over the fact that you are STILL HERE, omg) brings up a very solid point: Christine and Erik's baby **_**was**_**, in fact, conceived a few weeks before Emily and Raoul's. Given the circumstances that Emily lived under throughout the majority of her pregnancy though, we will assume she didn't carry to full term. I'll have to go back and change a few minor things in much earlier chapters – part of a general cleanup that I'm going to be doing with this story – but for the sake of this chapter, baby Cedric is early, and Christine is due any day now. :)**

**__________________________________**

_Three days later_

The rooster's crow echoed throughout the stone mansion, the first and only wake-up call for all the staff on the grounds. Emily's eyelashes fluttered, but didn't fully open. Sighing, still half asleep, she shifted her weight slightly, and started to doze off as quickly as she had been awoken. No sooner had her limp head lolled off to one side, however, than the tiny lump of warmth curled against her breast began to squirm.

_Go back to sleep, _she prayed silently, _Not today… it's the ONE day we can sleep in… just please go back to sleep…_

There would be no such luck. Two tiny feet began to knead her in the ribs, and a quiet, almost choking sound issued from her son's mouth – the warning signs of a full blown screaming fit in the making, should she choose to ignore him for much longer.

Letting out a groan, Emily slowly opened her eyes, squinting in the pale grey light of dawn. Once they had cleared enough to focus, she settled them with mock exasperation on the tiny face cradled in the crook of her arm.

"Really now, Your 'ighness," she sighed, dropping the neckline of her nightgown and shifting her hungry son into feeding position. "I thought we 'ad discussed this. When Mummy doesn't get 'er sleep, she gets cranky." Despite her chastisement, she smiled in a warm, sleepy way, running a finger lovingly down her son's pink cheek. "O' course, your response would be that when you don't get your breakfast, _you're_ quite the cranky one too. We're just a couple of crankers, aren't we, Ceddy Beddy?"

Cedric paid her mindless baby chatter no heed; he was too busy suckling away, content and completely oblivious to anything but his breakfast. For her part, Emily was happy just to sit there and watch her new baby in awe.

For the first few days, she had convinced herself at least once an hour that her tiny son was going to die – she had not spent much of her life in the presence of children, let alone one so young, and had been taken aback by all of the new things she learned about infants and motherhood with each passing moment. In all honesty, she had expected her son to be born plump and pale, able to gesture and hold himself upright and communicate clearly what he wanted. When Suzette had handed her a floppy, red, frail, helpless little bundle, Emily had felt completely overwhelmed and unprepared. At first it seemed that all he ever did was cry, and she rarely knew what it was that he needed. When she first tried to breastfeed him, she was shocked to find that her milk had not "come in yet," as Suzette tried to explain to her. Then Emily was _sure_ he would die of starvation, and that her breasts were broken, and she had cried for fifteen minutes solid before the cook was able to set her straight. Then came his first diaper, and Emily had shrieked in terror and demanded to know why her son was pooping black tar. _Then _came her concern over why the baby refused to smile at her – she had been convinced that he hated her from the start, until Suzette explained with a sigh that he wouldn't have that ability for another month yet. The more the old cook explained, the more Emily realized that she knew absolutely _nothing_ about infants whatsoever.

And as the days passed, she had gradually settled down and come to accept that her son was fine – small, as everyone commented, for he was several weeks early – but a perfectly healthy, alert, inquisitive baby boy. As the signs of the struggle of birth evaporated, he also proved to be a remarkably handsome little creature too, but that was not a surprise to Emily in the slightest, given his sire. Every day she was falling more and more in love with this tiny being that she and Raoul had created in one of their few happy moments together.

Tilting her head back against the headboard now, Emily closed her eyes for a few seconds, thinking back to that day…

_My, my, you have quite the expensive tastes, my dear. Gold and stuffed lobster… perhaps a bottle of fine white wine and imported Belgian truffles for dessert?_

_Oh, 'eavens no, darling; make it __champagne__… with diamonds in the glass._

A smile tugged at her lips at the memory, but it faded quickly as her son finished his breakfast. Sighing, she lifted him to her shoulder and massaged his back percussively until he let out a few solid burps. With a practiced swipe of her sleeve, she cleaned the milky spittle from his lips and then cradled him back onto her shoulder again. Slowly and gently she rocked him, listening to the sweet, happy gurgles he made.

"You should 'ave gold and stuffed lobster," she told her son sadly, her eyes distant. "The son of a count and all. You weren't cut out to choke down porridge and ale. It ain't in your blood, is it, my Cedric?"

The baby simply cooed as he gummed her collarbone.

Emily pursed her lips until they turned white, lost in her own thoughts, until suddenly she whipped the coverlet off of her with her free hand, kicked her legs over the edge of the bed, and set the baby down.

Just as Emily was pulling a clean muslin chemise over her head, one of the youngest maids entered the room and proceeded to empty the chamber pot into a putrid wooden bucket. The girl hesitated for a few seconds after her chore was completed, simply standing there, staring at Emily with an unreadable expression in her wide, dark eyes.

"What?" Emily snapped, eyeing the girl uneasily.

"Nothing, ma'am," the girl responded, her voice barely a whisper. Still, she stood frozen in place as if she had sprouted roots. Emily noticed with growing discomfort that the girl's eyes had fallen on Cedric. Protectively, she scooped up her son, though she wasn't entirely sure what she was trying to protect him from.

"Then get goin', I 'ave packing to do," she ordered. Still the girl didn't move.

"Packing?" the girl's mouth barely moved, and the sound was so faint Emily thought for a moment that she had imagined it.

"Listen, not that it's any of your business, but this is the last day Lady Nicole is givin' me off before I 'ave to return to work with the rest of you lot," Emily explained impatiently. "And I got places to be, so if you don't mind—"

The girl was shaking like a leaf now, the color completely drained from her face, but she seemed to be building up the courage to say something, and Emily's curiosity won out over her irritation; she waited until the girl gathered her wits enough to speak. "But… pardon me, ma'am, but if you are well enough to travel, wouldn't that mean you are feeling well enough to go back to work?"

A smirk played at Emily's lips. "Probably so," she agreed. "But since no one's goin to tell the Lady that I'm gone, it won't make any difference, now, will it?" The girl only proceeded to shake harder. With a roll of her eyes, Emily swatted her free hand in the direction of the door. "Go on now, shoo. And keep your mouth shut. If there's any trouble with the Mistress, I'll know who told!"

At that, the girl leapt into motion, sloshing her heavy bucket behind her as she left the room in a hurry.

Emily clucked to herself, shaking her head. She laid Cedric down on the bed again and proceeded to wrap him snugly in several layers of blankets. "I tell you, Ced, some of these maids get it in their 'eads that they need to know the business of anyone and everyone else around them. Nosy little thing, wasn't she?"

Cedric's only response was a wide yawn. His ocean blue eyes had become droopy and unfocused, and as Emily finished swaddling him, she sighed once more. "Oh sure, _you_ get to go back to sleep," she grumbled. She shrugged on a thick brown cloak and began to dig through her dresser, pulling out a few clean blankets, diapers, pins, a change of clothes, hairbrush, and a few crumpled bills. Unceremoniously, she stuffed all of the items into a single knapsack, swung it over her shoulder, and then lifted her sleeping son into her arms.

She peered out into the hallway, making sure that no one was within eyesight before tiptoeing silently toward the stairwell. She held her breath all the way down the winding staircase, as if the sound of her breathing would draw the attention of everyone in the household. Luck seemed to be on her side, though; save the nosy little chamber pot girl, the others seemed to be occupied with their chores, and if they noticed her, they paid her no heed.

Emily stopped only once, in the kitchen, to grab a fresh croissant from a tray cooling by the window, before loping off toward the nearest train station. Not until she was safely off of the grounds and making her way briskly down the dirt country road did she dare breathe a sigh of relief, knowing she was in the clear.

"All right, Cedric," she whispered, kissing her baby's head gently. "Let's go meet your father."

-------------------------------------------

By the time the travel-weary duo finally reached Gare Montparnasse, the sun had already stooped to kiss the western horizon. Emily sighed in relief and stretched her aching spine as she stepped down from the cramped passenger car. It had not been a pleasant trip. A rowdy group of drunken university schoolboys had shared the compartment with her and made complete asses of themselves, screaming, laughing raucously, spilling rum down their shirts, and keeping both Emily and Cedric awake and annoyed the entire time. Any other day she would have given the boys a good solid tongue lashing, but she chewed the inside of her lip to keep quiet. A woman traveling alone was dangerous enough; she didn't need to evoke the wrath of a handful of drunk, lusting college boys while she was at it. Now she was not only responsible for her own life, but that of the precious little bundle in her arms.

She held her son tightly against her as she wound her way through the bustling train station, making very sure that he wasn't bumped by any mindless passersby. The crowds moved like cattle in one direction or another, coming or going, and it took several minutes for Emily to get her bearings and decide when to shove her way against the current. Eventually she managed to elbow her way off the platform and fall into line with the others waiting for a hansom. Another fifteen minutes and she finally stepped into a stale-smelling carriage, collapsing into the worn seat with a sigh of exhaustion.

"_Où aimeriez-vous aller, madame_?" the driver asked monotonously.

Guessing that he was asking for her destination, Emily answered with the best French accent she could conjure, "_Le Louvre, s'il vous plait_." She was not stupid enough to request to be dropped of at the de Chagny mansion – she would simply walk the remaining distance from the famous museum.

No sooner had the buggy began to rumble along the cobblestone streets than a jaw-cracking yawn heaved itself out of her. She lifted the blanket lightly covering Cedric's face to make sure he was still soundly asleep, and only once she was sure he was did she allow her own heavy eyelids to droop shut.

It seemed that she had barely drifted off before the carriage pulled to a jarring stop. "_Ici nous sommes_, _La Palais de Louvre_," the driver's tired voice said from the front of the carriage. "_Cinq francs, madame,_ _s'il vous plait."_ Trying to blink the sleep from her eyes, Emily rummaged in her knapsack and conjured five francs, tipping the driver with a few spare coins. As the hansom rolled off into the night in search of another customer, Emily simply stood on the curb for a few lingering minutes, staring open-mouthed at the majestic building before her. Although she had never traveled far from Brighton, she was fairly certain that no building in England could match the opulence and splendor of France's castles. Her eyes swept appreciatively over the sturdy stone columns and elegant arches, the ornate decorative trim, the bubbling fountains.

"This," she whispered to her sleeping baby, "_This_ is what you were meant for, my love." With newly restored confidence, she bent to kiss his forehead and promised him under her breath, "I will make this come true for you, Cedric. You were born of noble blood, and by God, you will not live a servant's life."

And with that, she tugged her cloak tighter around herself, ducked back into the shadows of her hood, and strode off in the direction of the de Chagny mansion as quickly as her legs would carry her.

---------------------------------------------

Fortunately, Emily met no trouble during her long and arduous trek through the winding city streets, toward the richer outskirts of Paris. Then again, it was not a neighborhood where one expected to find trouble; the only people out and about in this part of town were elderly couples walking well groomed poodles.

In an hour's time she finally reached the long cobblestone drive that wound its way up to the magnificent de Chagny mansion. Out of breath and exhausted, she paused at the gated entrance for a few seconds, drinking in the sight.

"We're 'ome, Ced," she whispered, shifting her son from one arm to another – tiny as he was, even he became heavy after a while. Emily took a moment to try to smooth her hair and wipe the beads of sweat from her brow. It was one thing to be exhausted from traveling all day; it was quite another to_ look _it when confronting the love of her life after being separated for months. After a few minutes she gave up the effort, knowing that it was all in vain. Raoul's concern would be with their child, not with her… and it was right that it should be that way.

Drawing in a deep, calming breath to try to steady her pounding heart, Emily slipped through the iron gate and made her way slowly toward the servant's entrance on the west side of the house. By this time of the night she knew that all of the hired help would have gathered in the kitchen to gossip about the day's events – never in her life had she encountered a group of people more inclined to chat up a storm about everyone else's business.

_The little chamber pot girl should go join THEM, _Emily mused as she slipped through the wooden door. Something in her mind niggled at that thought, but it was gone as soon as it had come; she had more important things to think about at the moment.

Emily had to remind herself to breathe as she reached the wooden door and quietly slipped inside. Just as she expected, no one was about; all of the servants had all convened to the kitchens. Still, she moved quickly, in case any of them should decide to retire to their quarters early. Her heart hammered as she reached the top of the staircase. So close… she was so close to the life she wanted for herself and her son. It was within her grasp now, but she had to play her cards just right. She pressed one hand against the stone wall to steady herself, listening intently to the creaks and sighs of the old house, the stifled mumblings coming from the kitchen downstairs, the tick of the old grandfather clock. She strained her ears for any sound, any indication of Raoul's presence, and after finding none, padded softly down the hall, checking for slivers of light around the door that would tell her where she would find her love.

Her heart leapt up into her throat when she finally found the correct door. It was in a wing of the house she did not recognize, on the opposite side of the mansion as the master bedroom. She hesitated before that door for a few moments, squeezing her eyes shut as she whispered a fevered prayer under her breath. In her own panic, she didn't notice how tight her grip had grown on the sleeping baby. Pinched uncomfortably, the newborn woke and began to writhe, his tiny face contorting.

"No no no," Emily pleaded in a desperate whisper, shifting him to her shoulder so his mouth was muffled by her chest. "Shhhhh, I'm sorry, baby, please shhhhh!"

This only seemed to aggravate the infant more, though; flailing his tiny fists, he began to cry.

Loudly.

Paralyzed with fear, Emily's eyes darted from the door to the stairs. For a moment she considered making a run for it, but it seemed that all of her muscles had frozen stiff. Her pleas with the infant became more desperate as she held him closer, trying in vain to muffle the sound.

A door creaked open downstairs. Footsteps were coming. Emily's blood had turned to ice, and it felt like her heart would hammer right through her ribcage. Her eyes flew wide as saucers as the door in front of her clicked open, spilling candlelight into the dark hall.

"What is…" Raoul halted in his tracks, a look of utter surprise pulling his handsome features taut. For a few seconds his mouth fell open and closed as if he were trying to form words, and finally he managed to stammer, "Emily?"

She realized that she was still wearing her hood, and in a silent answer, she allowed it to fall backwards, revealing her face. Chewing her lip and still stroking the baby's back in an attempt to quiet him, she whispered, "Hello, Raoul."

Completely bewildered, he struggled for words, gesturing absently. "Did you, I mean are you…" His gorgeous blue eyes fell upon the squirming bundle in her arms. "Is that…?"

The footsteps were coming up the stairs now. Emily gave Raoul an urgent look, nodding her head toward the room he had just come from. "Could we…?"

He caught on quickly, nodding and stepping back into the room, allowing her to pass. As soon as she was in, he shut the door behind them, and bolted it for good measure.

Emily's heart seemed to leap up into her throat as she realized exactly what room they were in. Beautiful, painted birch wood furniture lined the room – a bookshelf filled with children's stories, a rocking chair padded with hand-embroidered cushions, an armoire, a rocking horse, a divan, a daybed, and in the far corner of the room, by the window, the most exquisite, hand-carved cradle she had ever seen in her life.

"My god," she whispered, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

But Raoul was not paying any attention to her. His gaze was fixated on the baby, who had ceased to scream once his mother's grip had loosened, and was now merely whimpering softly, self-soothing by sucking on his fingers. Very slowly, Raoul took a step closer. Then another. As Emily's eyes adjusted to the light, she was able to make out puffy red bags around his eyes – had he been crying?

_Over Christine, _she realized with a bitter pang in her heart. She brushed the thought aside for the time being, telling herself that she would not allow that viper of a woman to taint this precious moment.

Raoul was now so close that she could hear him breathing – deliberate, slow breaths, as if he were afraid that breathing too loudly would disturb the baby. Only once he was within a few centimeters did his gaze flicker up to Emily's face, the question burning in his ocean blue eyes before he ever needed to voice it.

"Raoul," Emily said gently, shifting the baby sideways so that he would be able to get a good view of the infant's face, "This is your son, Cedric."

Her lover let out his breath in a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "My son…" Emily's heart swelled, overwhelmed with pride and love as Raoul's eyes misted with tears. He leaned forward longingly, too shy to ask, and with a knowing smile, Emily held the baby out to him.

"Here, like this," she whispered, demonstrating how to cradle the helpless infant. She guided Raoul's hands to support the base of Cedric's head and underneath his bottom, so that the baby lay upright against his father's chest. Their son gurgled to himself, shoving a fistful of Raoul's shirt into his mouth and gumming it contentedly. Emily's face split in a grin. "Oh, 'e likes you," she giggled, "'e only spits on you if 'e likes you."

Raoul laughed nervously through the tears that had now pooled in his eyes. "He's so small," he marveled, running his thumb along the base of the baby's head.

"'E was a month early," said Emily, smoothing a flyaway strand of Cedric's dark hair. "Worried me sick, but weren't nothin' wrong with 'im, was there Ced? Just tired of bein' cramped in there, that's all." She smiled, kissing the baby's tiny fist.

Concern suddenly darkened Raoul's eyes, and he looked up at her seriously. "You didn't… you weren't… you didn't give birth to him on the streets…?"

For one defiant moment, Emily considered telling him that she had – after all, he had turned her out on the streets, and if hadn't been for the kindness of Jean Claude, she _would _have birthed their son wedged between the two garbage receptacles that had been her home for almost a month. But the panicked, guilty look in Raoul's eyes dissuaded her, and she answered honestly.

"No… no. I found work in the Loire Valley. 'E was born there."

Raoul pursed his lips, raising his eyebrows. "Work?" he echoed skeptically.

"Proper work," Emily insisted. "As an 'andmaid to an old Duchess."

"I see." He seemed to be lost in thought, simply staring down at their beautiful son, absently patting the small of his back.

_This will be the turning point, _Emily noted, her heartbeat quickening. _Either he will take us in now, or send us back to the Duchess, knowing I have work to support us…_

Unwilling to let the moment become the latter, Emily called upon her acting skills and swooned on her feet, bringing her palm to her forehead. Immediately, Raoul's face twisted in alarm and he stepped forward, releasing one of his hands from Cedric to reach out and steady Emily.

"Are you all right?" he asked, genuine concern shining from his blue eyes.

Emily nodded faintly, biting back a smile at the warmth of his hand on her arm. "Fine, I'll be fine. Still recovering, you know." She jutted her chin at Cedric and shrugged her shoulders with a smile. "I'm supposed to be on bedrest, but I figured you'd want to see 'im, just this once, before I 'ave to go back to work."

Realization seemed to hit Raoul like a blow to the stomach, for his breath hitched in his chest, and he shifted the baby closer, as if afraid Emily would take him away. Internally she celebrated her triumph; she could see the wheels in his handsome head turning. His reluctance to let the baby go was clear as day. She could only pray that he would be able to forgive their rocky start in favor of starting anew, now that their son could serve as a solid foundation between them.

Very slowly, Raoul turned away from her to face the cradle in the far corner of the room. Resting his cheek against the baby's soft head, he let out his breath tremulously, while for her part, Emily held her breath, awaiting his answer.

"You are not," he said bitterly, without turning to face her, "And will never be Christine." She heard a sigh escape his lips before he placed a kiss on Cedric's head, and laid him gently in the beautiful cradle. He grasped the edge of the crib with white knuckles, refusing to turn and look at her. After several long moments of pained silence stretched between them, he finally hung his head and sighed again. "But you are the mother of my child, which is more than I can say for her."

Emily was not sure why, in her moment of triumph, bitter tears had begun to stream down her cheeks.

With agonizing slowness, he turned to face her, and she saw that his expression matched her own. Shaking his head, he whispered, "Everything you've ever told me was a lie. Everything."

"No," Emily insisted, squeezing her eyes shut. "No, it wasn't." Fresh tears dripped down her cheeks, and she opened her eyes again, speaking to him with the most raw honesty she'd ever possessed. "I told you I loved you, Raoul, and that was never a lie. Everything I did… everything I said…" She choked, shaking her head helplessly. "Don't you see? Just look at me." She laughed dryly, but the sound held no humor. "A prostitute. Orphaned, poor, filthy. The scum of the streets. And you… a count. You are everything I am not, Raoul. You are good and clean and noble. Everyone adores and respects you. For Christ's sake, you were married to an angel. Who could ever 'ope to compete with that? Even when you 'ad forgotten everything else, you remembered 'er." She was trembling uncontrollably now, the combination of fatigue and emotion taking its toll on her already weak body. "I thought… I thought that the only way I could ever 'ave you look at me the way you did when you thought of 'er… was to make you believe I was something I wasn't."

Raoul studied her in silence for a few moments. His brow was still lowered angrily, but his eyes had softened somewhat. "But you must have known that eventually I would find everything out…"

"Yes," she whispered, her lips quaking. "And by that point, I'd hoped…" her voice trailed off, and she shook her curly head. "I was foolish enough to believe that by then, maybe you would 'ave seen me for myself… as a woman, a person. Not a whore, not this wretched thing you wouldn't pay a second glance at… but as someone who loved you, and wanted to take care of you and protect you." She sighed shakily, attempting to smile through her tears. "I was even foolish enough to believe that one day… one day you might even learn to love me back."

At that, Raoul turned away from her, breathing heavily, running one hand through his thick blonde hair. He was silent for so long that Emily believed that he had spoken his peace. Crying so hard she could hardly see straight, she staggered over to the crib, and reached down for her baby. She buried his face in his sweet, soft neck, kissing him between sobs, trying to draw strength from him. She glanced at Raoul only briefly, turning one last, longing gaze at his still, silent form.

"Well, now you know," she whispered. "And I 'ope that one day, maybe you can find it in your 'eart to forgive me." When Raoul didn't move or speak, she bit her lip to hold back more sobs, and made her way toward the door.

Her hand had barely touched the handle when his voice stopped her in her tracks – "Wait."

Emily's heart stopped beating for the few seconds it took Raoul to cross the room. She could not stifle the look of hope on her face as she turned to face him.

His features were set, determined, but his eyes were a storm of conflicting emotions. It seemed hours that they simply stood there, staring at one another, before he finally decided on his words. "I would be lying if I denied the fact that there was a time," he said slowly, "Fleeting and short-lived as it was… that I did feel myself falling in love with you."

Emily was sure she had never heard sweeter words in her life. She let out her breath in a rush, trying not to get ahead of herself; for there was an underlying pain, a mistrust in his eye that did not escape her.

"I am a Christian man, Emily. You asked forgiveness, and I will grant it to you."

"Thank you—"

"I'm not finished," he cut her off with uncharacteristic sharpness. She lowered her gaze, and he softened his tone. "I can forgive, Emily, but what you've done…" He pursed his lips. "… it will take a very long time to forget, or to begin to trust you again."

She turned her brown eyes up to his, and swore quietly, "I would spend the rest of my life trying to earn it, if you would let me."

He considered her, staring into her eyes as if they were truly the windows to her soul. At last he seemed to decide that she meant it, for he nodded slowly and suggested, "For now, let's see if we can survive a day."

Relief flooded through Emily's veins, and she nearly collapsed in his arms. "I think we might be able to 'andle that,' she agreed with a faint smile. She glanced down at Cedric, stroking his hair tenderly. "What do you think, Ced? Can you 'andle being loved on by two parents all at once?"

The baby whimpered in his sleep, as if on cue, and both Emily and Raoul couldn't help but laugh.

"I think 'e's willin' to give it a try," Emily said with a warm smile.

Raoul nodded, offering a finger to the baby, who instinctively wrapped his tiny hand around it. "Very well then," he answered softly. Suddenly he looked at the closed door in front of them, and raising his voice, said, "Jean Claude, please dismiss the party gathered outside the door before I am forced to fire all of the hired help. And see to it that Emily's belongings are fetched from the Duchess's estate."

From the other side of the door, the butler's amused voice answered, "Right away, sir. Go on, off you go, if any of you plan on coming back to work here tomorrow." At least twenty pairs of feet scurried off in a hurry, and Emily blushed while Raoul shook his head.

"You know all of Paris will 'ave 'eard about this by morning," she said hesitantly.

Raoul laughed hollowly. "Need I remind you that I have supposedly already been murdered by my runaway wife, come back to life, proceeded to kill my own brother, and then been cheated on with an Opera Ghost?" He shook his head. "The Parisian gossip chain has thrived this year on thoroughly trashing my reputation. After all of that, a little scandal like this is hardly worth their effort."

**A/N: Whew, that was the longest chapter in a while! Yes, yes, I know, I know, you're anxious for more Erik and Christine. Next chapter, loves.**

… **I like babies. They're very snuggly and cute. And I might be a little bit in love with baby Cedric. Aww. :)**

**Thoughts?**


	64. Labor

**A/N: Okey doke, the time lapse has been fixed, the past four chapters cleaned up, switched around, and altered accordingly. I would **_**highly**_** suggest going back and rereading, starting with Chapter 59. **

**This chapter is pure E/C fluff, with a splash of Nadir for good measure! –sighs happily- I think you're going to like this one, if I'm not mistaken.**

**(P.S. Note that Erik is up and about now, due to his rigorous physical therapy routine, compliments of Madame Giry by day and Christine by night, as detailed in my new chapter 61)**

"What about Gabrielle?"

"No."

"Helene?"

"No."

"Isabelle?"

"No."

"Jacqueline?"

"… Possibly."

The quill scratched animatedly across the parchment.

"Kathryn?"

"No."

"Liliane?"

"_No_."

Christine set the quill down and fixed Erik with an imploring pout. "Why not Liliane? It's so precious. We could call her Lily."

Casting an impatient glare back at her, he said, "Remember that backstabbing little twit of a ballet rat who used to tease you mercilessly when you first arrived at the opera?"

A frown darkened Christine's brow. "Vaguely. Why, was that her name? Liliane?"

"Yes. Liliane Delaflote. You cried yourself to sleep for a week after that little snake sank her fangs into you. The name has left a bitter taste in my mouth, and I'd rather not associate it with our child, if it's all the same to you."

Biting her lip to hold back an amused smile at Erik's resentment over a childhood quibble long-forgotten, Christine complied demurely. "Very well, it's off the list." She chewed the feather tip of the quill, returning her gaze to the parchment on the desk in front of her. "Let's see, what's next? What about Madeleine?"

Suddenly she felt as if the entire room had gone cold, for she shivered involuntarily. She looked over at Erik in confusion, only to find that his expression had gone blank and completely emotionless. His fingers had faltered on the organ keys, producing a sharp chord that pierced right to the bone. The very air between them seemed to crackle with icy electricity like the aftermath of a lightning storm.

"N-never mind… never mind, Erik… we'll forget that one too…"

He neither moved nor spoke, but continued to stare at the organ keys with eyes that seemed hauntingly… empty.

Chewing her lip nervously, Christine set the quill down and rolled up the parchment. "Well…" she said with false cheerfulness, trying desperately to inject some life back into the situation. "That's half of the girls' names, anyways. We can pick this up again later."

Silence.

Her unease grew by the second as she wracked her brain for any memory of a woman named Madeleine. None of the ballet rats that she could remember… none of the leading ladies… she couldn't even think of a hairdresser or seamstress by that name. Perhaps a patron of the opera… she vaguely remembered a baroness who might have been a Madeleine or Madeline or Made-something…? But no one who would have had such a deep and profound impact on Erik like this!

And then it occurred to her: perhaps it was a woman that Christine herself had never known. Perhaps Madeleine had been present in Erik's life long before seven-year-old Christine ever entered it.

Her mind traveled back in time as if guided by an invisible hand, and snagged on the echo of a mournful, broken song…

_This face which earned a mother's fear and loathing, a mask my first unfeeling scrap of clothing…_

It took a great deal of effort for Christine to stand up on her swollen, aching ankles, but she gritted her teeth against the pain and tottered determinedly across the room. Erik did not so much as look at her as she lowered herself onto the organ bench next to him. Sighing deeply, she began to run her fingers through his hair in a heartfelt but useless attempt to comfort him.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't realize."

It was as if a thick sheet of ice had settled over his eyes, shielding the churning black depths just below the surface. "It doesn't matter."

Her lips tightened guiltily. "Well, obviously it does, or you wouldn't—"

"_I SAID_," he hissed through clenched teeth, "It doesn't _matter_, Christine. Let it go."

"Fine," she whispered, turning her head away to mask her hurt. Silently, Erik got to his feet and stormed across the room, retreating to the Louis-Philippe room with a swish of the red curtain.

_Honestly, _she fumed as she waddled down to the kitchen area, suddenly struck with an insatiable craving for a grape, goat cheese and mustard sandwich. _Which one of us is carrying the child here? I am supposed to be the hormonal, fussy, high-maintenance one in this relationship!_

She lathered mustard onto a slice of rye bread with a vengeance, then began smashing green grapes into a slimy pulp, imagining that each one was Erik's head. By the time she had finished crumbling goat cheese on top of the odd concoction, she was crying for no particularly good reason.

"Knock knock," said a kind voice from the entrance to the lair. Christine wiped her tears hastily on the back of her wrist as she turned to face the unexpected visitor.

"Monsieur Khan," she said thickly around a bite of sandwich. She gestured to her full mouth apologetically and indicated that he was welcome to enter.

"Oh… I'm sorry…" Nadir hesitated as he caught sight of her watery eyes. "Did I catch you at a bad time? I seem to have a most unbecoming habit of doing that lately."

Christine swallowed the food in her mouth and heaved a deep, frustrated sigh before lapsing into tears again. "Oh, it's ERIK," she cried, flailing her arms about in defeat and sending little splatters of mustard flying. "We were going over a list of possible n-names for the baby in alphab-be-tical order," she sobbed, dropping the remains of her sandwich in favor of accepting the Persian's proffered embrace. "And I got to M and I had always liked the name Madeleine and I didn't realize how badly it would affect him and he won't even tell me WHY but I think maybe it was his mother's name but I can't be sure and now he won't even look at me and—" She had begun to talk so fast that one word blurred into another, but Nadir politely pretended to understand her incoherent babbling. He allowed her to talk herself out, and finally Christine simply collapsed on his shoulder in exhaustion.

"…I see," the Persian said once he was sure her tirade had ended. A blush crept up Christine's cheeks as she realized how childish she must have seemed to him. Her raging hormones had finally simmered down, leaving her emotionally and physically exhausted. She slumped in relief when Nadir suggested kindly, "Why don't we go sit and have a chat, you and I? I'll make some tea and you can rest your feet for a while."

She nodded, and allowed him to take her by the arm and help her over to the nearest chair. He even bent to lift her swollen legs up onto a footstool, and she smiled at him gratefully. "You are so good to me," she said, then amended, "to _both_ of us."

He returned the smile and bustled off to the kitchen, beginning to prepare a kettle of tea. "I help where I am needed, Christine." With a wink, he amended, "And on the rare occasion, even where I am neither wanted nor needed, but have the better sense than the parties involved."

They couldn't be certain, but both Christine and Nadir thought they heard a derisive snort from the direction of the bedroom.

Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Nadir continued, "In any case, it is no more than either of you would do for me, I'm sure."

"Well, if I can ever be of any assistance to you, please let me know," Christine insisted. She blushed and touched her swollen belly. "Once the baby is born, of course. At the moment I fear I can be of very little use to anyone, really."

The Persian raised one eyebrow, the tiniest smile playing at the corners of his lips as he stirred the kettle of steaming water. "That may not be entirely true," he said mildly.

Intrigued, Christine quirked one of her own eyebrows in return. "What do you mean?"

Nadir's eyes twinkled as he removed the kettle from the fire and poured its steaming contents over two mugs containing bold tea leaves he had found in the pantry. He purposefully refrained from answering her until he had handed her one of the mugs, taken the other one, and settled in the chair opposite her.

"You can simply grace me with your company and conversation," he answered, smiling at her over the rim of his mug as he slurped his tea. "I am all ears. We could talk about anything, really… your childhood… your time in the ballet corps… you had a very strict instructor, didn't you? A stern-looking blonde woman with rather stunning blue eyes? Do tell me about her." He choked on his tea. "I mean the ballet. That is, whatever you want to talk about."

Now they were both _sure _they heard a snort come from the direction of the Louis-Philippe room.

Christine's brown eyes crinkled warmly as she studied her friend. She had never seen the Persian so flusteredbefore. Was that a _blush_ she saw darkening his tanned cheeks? Swallowing the smirk that played at her lips, she began to tell him all about her days in the ballet corps, throwing in as many anecdotes about Madame Giry as she could recall. Whenever she would mention her ballet mistress and mother figure, Nadir would lean forward involuntarily, and it took a great deal of effort for Christine to smother giggles.

"But you still consider her a _kind_ woman, don't you?" he pressed after she finished a story about a day when Madame Giry had worked the ballet rats until their feet were blistered and bleeding. "Stern, of course, but kind nonetheless?"

"Not that day I didn't," Christine answered honestly. "But generally speaking? Yes, she is one of the most wonderful people I have ever known. She took me in when I had no one. She gathered me under her wing and helped me to become a great dancer. She introduced me to the stage." A wistful smile warmed her face. "I suppose you could say it's because of her that I met Erik. Had she not brought me to live at the opera, I would have lived in an orphanage all this time, and who knows where I would have ended up?"

"A good thing indeed that she came to your aid," Nadir agreed, finishing the last swallow of his tea. He seemed to be content to end the conversation there, and Christine eyed him with amusement.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me, Monsieur Khan?" she hinted, arching one eyebrow at him in a playful accusation.

The Persian laughed and rose to his feet a bit too hastily with the intention of clearing the table. In the process, his knee bumped the table, sending his empty cup off the edge. The porcelain mug shattered on the stone floor, and he blushed an even darker shade of crimson, stooping down immediately to pick up the mess.

"Oh I'm so terribly sorry, how clumsy of me!" he said. "I'll replace it, of course."

Christine waved a hand dismissively. "Please, don't worry about it. We have plenty. Erik bought an entire set before we had the Ladies Giry over for tea a few months ago."

At the mention of the name Giry, Nadir's hands fumbled again, and he dropped a few pieces on the ground, where they broke into even smaller shards. It was all Christine could do to feign a sudden coughing fit to cover her giggles.

But after a particularly hard cough, she suddenly fell silent, the color draining from her cheeks. Her brown eyes went wide, and her mouth moved wordlessly, as if she were too stunned to speak.

Nadir looked up from the teacup mess, his brow creasing in concern. "Christine?"

It took her a few seconds to compose herself enough to press a finger to her lips, glancing sideways at the bedroom where Erik was undoubtedly still listening in on their conversation. The Persian nodded his understanding and abandoned his pile of porcelain shards, coming over to kneel in front of her.

Christine had begun to tremble violently, and she grasped Nadir's shoulders for support as she leaned forward and whispered in his ear. "I think… I think my water just broke."

Immediately, the Persian shifted into professional mode. "May I examine you to be sure?" he asked.

She shivered – it still struck her as awkward and improper to allow a man (except Raoul or Erik, of course) to scrutinize her most sacred area, even for medical purposes, but she was alarmed and inexperienced enough that she spread her legs and lifted her skirt to allow him to look.

Nadir examined her quickly, seeming to sense her unease, then nodded and touched the outside of her knee, silently giving her permission to cover herself again.

Christine's gaze jumped frantically between the bedroom and Nadir. "Should I start pushing?" she mouthed. "Should we tell Erik?"

The Persian's face split in a grin despite himself, and he patted her arm gently. "The answer to both questions is no, not yet." He climbed to his feet and looked as if he were preparing to depart. Christine became frantic, clawing at his arm like a frightened cat.

"Where are you going?" she cried, forgetting to keep her voice down. The Daroga's eyes darted to the Louis-Philippe room meaningfully, and she clasped both hands over her mouth, taking the hint.

Leaning down to whisper in her ear, the Persian assured her, "I will be back shortly. I need to gather some supplies."

Christine could not keep the fear from her voice. "But what if the baby comes while you are gone?"

He smiled again, shaking his head and smoothing her hair in a fatherly manner. "Oh, Christine," he chuckled. "I apologize if you were under the impression that this would be a quick process. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, my dear, but it could be several hours before you even begin to feel the first contractions. After that, it could be as long as a day before you are ready to push, and anywhere between a few minutes and a few hours from the time you begin to push until the child is in your arms."

She was completely taken-aback, and looked at him for a few moments as if he were joking. When his expression did not change, she slumped back in her seat and answered with a quiet, "Oh."

The Persian's smile broadened, and he bent to place a chaste kiss on her forehead. "Rest, Christine. You will need your strength in the coming hours. I'd suggest taking a nap, or reading a book to pass the time. Perhaps finish reviewing that list of names." He hesitated, studying her pale, taut face with a look of pity. "Is there anything I can fetch you while I'm out? Something to make you more comfortable?"

Christine couldn't help herself; her lip twitched and wobbled with the onslaught of frightened tears. "I want Madame Giry," she whispered so faintly that Nadir could barely hear her.

At that, he notably perked up, a smile taking the place of his concerned frown. "I know where she is staying," he admitted, no longer caring that she learned that he had known far more about her old ballet mistress than he had initially let on. "I'll fetch her on my way back."

"Really?" Christine tried to return the smile, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "You'll bring her here?"

The Persian nodded. "Her presence will undoubtedly put you at ease, which will make the entire process much easier on all of us," he said. "I will return within the hour, with Madame Giry in tow."

"Thank you," Christine sighed in relief, enveloping him in a warm hug. "Thank you so much."

"Be brave," Nadir told her, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Take deep breaths. I'll be right back." And with that, he turned and loped off into the dark tunnel from which he had come.

Christine simply sat there, straining her ears until she could no longer hear his footsteps echoing off of the damp stone walls. When the pressing silence around her got to be too much, she slowly climbed to her feet, wincing as a rush of water trickled down her leg. For a moment she simply stood there helplessly, trembling and unsure of what to do. At last she decided she would ignore Nadir's suggestion to rest, and clean up the mess she'd left instead. She hobbled over to the pile of dirty laundry that stood by the filtered pool, waiting to be washed, and selected a dirty chemise as a makeshift rag. For the next few minutes she set to work scrubbing the chair and the floor beneath it, insistent that neither Nadir, Erik, nor Madame Giry should have to do it for her.

Once the area had been mopped up to her satisfaction, she dropped the soiled chemise back onto the laundry pile. Then she simply stood there, her arms limp at her sides, looking around the room for something – anything – to take her mind off of her impending labor.

The lair was silent as a tomb, and she felt overwhelmed by a sudden sense of loneliness. She stared at the curtain to the Louis-Philippe room for a long time, debating whether or not to go in. She wanted more than anything to bury her face in Erik's chest and simply hide from the inevitable, but at the same time, she did not want to worry him prematurely, as Nadir had promised her that this would take a very, very long time.

Eventually, her loneliness and fear won out.

Sniffling, she pushed back the curtain and peered inside guiltily. Erik's eyes were trained on her, scrutinizing her. It looked as if he had been pacing, but halted once she entered the room. It took a great deal of effort for Christine to keep herself from running to him and bursting into tears. Instead, she kept her back away from him so he wouldn't see the wet stain that had soaked through her dress, walked silently over to the wardrobe, selected a clean nightgown, and changed into it. Only then did she make her way over to the bed, refusing to meet Erik's intense, questioning gaze. Biting her lips to hold back frightened tears, she slipped under the covers and held her arms up to him longingly. Their quarrel seemed to be forgotten in that instant, for his anger was replaced with immediate concern, and he crossed the room quickly and climbed into bed beside her, taking her into his arms. Christine squeezed her eyes shut and nestled into the warmth of his chest, drawing comfort from the familiar sounds of his breathing and heartbeat.

"My mother died in childbirth," she whispered against his skin. "She was alive one moment, pushing and screaming and breathing, and then… then she died. My father never even got to say goodbye."

"Christine," Erik choked, his grip on her tightening.

"I'm frightened," she whispered, "Erik, I'm frightened. I don't want to die."

"You won't," he promised her. She felt his heart pounding beneath her cheek. "I won't let you die."

She kissed his chest with trembling lips, then laid her cheek back down. "I love you," she murmured.

"Don't—"

"Please… I have to say this, Erik. If I don't survive this, I need you to promise me something."

"Christine," his voice was laced with desperation. "For God's sake, _stop it_. Stop it right now. This is madness."

Ignoring him, she pressed on. "Promise me that if I don't make it…" She swallowed. "If I follow my mother to Heaven, and our baby survives, promise me you'll take good care of it, Erik? Please? Promise me you'll love it as I do, no matter what…"

He simply shook his head and held her as if she would disappear if he let go.

"Promise me."

"Christine, stop. It doesn't matter. You're not going to die."

"_Promise me!_" She looked up at him imploringly, tears pooling in her dark eyes.

He looked as if she had asked him to stab her in the chest. But he seemed to sense the desperation behind her tone, and the need for him to quell it, for he finally answered, "Fine. Yes. I promise you. But it's completely irrelevant because you are not—going—to die. Not until you are an old woman, living in our house by the sea, surrounded by our children and grandchildren. And by then I will already have passed long before you."

Christine closed her eyes, trying as hard as she could to picture the life ahead of her. The two of them, in their house by the sea… toys scattered across the living room, tiny fingerprints all over the windows… picnics on the beach in the afternoon sun, and evenings by the fireplace, wrapped in Erik's arms once their beautiful green-eyed children were asleep upstairs…

The heartwarming scene was almost enough to drown out the nightmarish image she had of her mother's pale, sweaty form falling limp in that same house – a newborn between her legs, seeming to suck the very life from her as Christine had drawn in her first breath and her mother had let out her last.

"Besides, it isn't time to succumb to that fear yet, Christine," Erik insisted, breaking her from her reverie. "Focusing on the negative will only cause you to panic when the time finally comes. And the baby isn't due for another—"

"My water broke, Erik."

He stopped breathing for a few seconds, then bolted upright, flinging the sheets aside. "When? _When?_ Why didn't you tell me? Are you all right? Are you in pain?" He cupped her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. "Where's that bloody Daroga?!"

She shushed him, placing a gentle kiss on his lips. "He went to go gather supplies, and to find Madame Giry for me. It's not that I don't trust him to deliver the baby, I just…" She swallowed. "I need my mother, and she is the closest thing I have."

Now Erik kicked his legs over the side of the bed, raking his fingers back through his hair. "When will they be back? How long has he been gone?"

Christine almost smiled – she had thought it was impossible to be more nervous about this than she already was, but Erik seemed intent on proving her wrong; he seemed ten times more panicked than she currently felt. She pressed a hand to his chest to stop him from getting up and pacing restlessly again, and she lay back down, indicating that he should do the same. "An hour or so. He said he doesn't think the baby will be here until tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Erik echoed, evidently as surprised by this news as she was. "Well… what… what are we supposed to do until then?"

She shrugged. "He suggested resting, reading a book… going over the rest of the baby names."

Erik did not seem impressed by any of these prospects. His eyes roved over her frantically, as if he were afraid she would explode at any second. "And you're sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine," she insisted, and was surprised by how much she felt it. Perhaps keeping her fear of dying locked up had only intensified the sentiment. She felt strangely free now, having got it off her chest.

"Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

She shook her head. "No, I just ate a sandwich, and Nadir made tea. Really, Erik, I'm f—" She stopped short, sucking in a sharp breath as the first contraction seized her womb.

If Erik had been worried before, he was positively panicked now. "Christine? Christine! Look at me. Breathe, take deep breaths… here, take my hand. Squeeze it every time you feel the pain… not _gently_, don't spare me this! I did this to you, the least you can do is wring my—"

Christine let out her breath in a whoosh and released his hand. "Erik, it's over."

He looked her up and down once in disbelief. "You're sure?"

She waited a few seconds, and when nothing else happened, she nodded. "I'm sure."

Erik stroked her forehead gently. "How bad was it?"

"Not that bad," she admitted. "It surprised me more than anything. It wasn't any worse than a bad menstrual cramp."

"That's good," Erik said, his eyes still flitting down to her belly nervously. "That's very good. Maybe this will be easier than we thought."

She knew he was saying it for her benefit; she was not stupid enough to believe that her entire labor would be this simple. Nevertheless, she smiled appreciatively and nodded, gesturing once again for him to lay down. Reluctantly, he complied, and she snuggled back against his chest. For several moments she was just content to lie there, listening to Erik's heartbeat, taking comfort in the warm weight of his arm wrapped around her.

"Erik," she whispered after a few minutes had ticked by. "We're having a baby."

He didn't answer at first. But his arms tightened around her, and he kissed her hair, so she knew he had heard her.

It was another minute before he asked softly, "What will we name it if it's a boy?"

Christine smiled and got to her feet before Erik's could reach up and grab her. He was hot on her heels though, and had one hand wrapped around her waist and the other held her hand as they walked out into the main room. Once she snatched up the list of names from the desk, Erik scooped her up into his arms, even with the additional weight of the baby, and carried her back to bed.

"What about Auguste?" she read as he walked.

"Perfect."

"Benjamin?"

"Sounds wonderful."

"Christophe?"

"Absolutely."

She looked up at him, her eyes narrowed. "Are you mocking me, monsieur?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," he insisted, kissing the tip of her nose. His eyes softened. "Really, Christine, all of the names you've chosen are wonderful. Pick whichever one you think suits the child best."

Christine's face lit up excitedly as he laid her on the bed and climbed in beside her. "Really, Erik? You mean it?"

He smiled. "Really. Your choice."

"So if it's a girl, I can name her Liliane…"

His smile quickly dissolved into a scowl. "Anything but _that_."

She grinned, continuing her train of thought, "And if it's a boy, we'll call him Raoul…"

Erik's eyes narrowed to emerald slits. "Oh, you think that's funny? You just wait and see what name I decide on for our second child…"

Christine collapsed in a fit of giggles. "Oh all right, no Liliane and no Raoul."

"Thank you."

As Christine lay back and continued to study the list, her face grew more serious. She made little marks on the paper with her thumbnail, not wanting to bother with the inky mess of a quill. Eventually she narrowed it down to two girls' names and two boys' names that struck her fancy.

"For a girl, Jacqueline Emmanuelle Guerrier or Nicole Lorraine Guerrier," she announced, and Erik nodded. "For a boy, Gustave Henri Guerrier or Lucas Benjamin Guerrier."

"All very solid names," Erik agreed. "I will be pleased with whichever you choose."

"Good," Christine said, kissing him. "Now, about the—" Before she could finish the sentence, she felt the second contraction coming on, and held out her hand for Erik's. This time she did not hesitate to squeeze his fingers – they were purple and throbbing by the time her uterine muscles relaxed.

"Worse this time?" Erik guessed, massaging his hand once Christine released it.

"Not really," she answered, her breath still coming rapidly. "But you told me to squeeze."

"I did," he agreed. "But I didn't realize you had the grip of a python."

"Well I'll stop squeezing then."

"No, no, I didn't say that."

Christine tilted her head back and laughed. "Listen to us! We sound like a grumpy old couple."

Erik nuzzled her ear affectionately and chuckled. "Squeeze as hard as you need. My fingers are yours to crush."

"I appreciate that."

A comfortable silence fell between the couple. Each of them sighed in turn, and gradually Erik felt the weight of Christine's head fall heavier against his shoulder as she drifted off to sleep. He waited until he was absolutely sure that she was lost in the swell of dreams before slowly, tenderly, moving his hand to rest on her belly. Despite the panic that had coursed through him initially, he felt that he had finally come to accept the presence of the child, even if he still dreaded that it would bear his monstrous deformity. There was absolutely nothing he could do about it now – the child was coming, and fast.

_By tomorrow, I will be a father. _The thought had formed before Erik had a chance to stifle it. He surprised even himself when, for the first time, the thought did not incur a violent shudder.

_Well, it's a step in the right direction, _he decided before laying his head atop Christine's and allowing his own heavy eyes to drift shut.

**A/N: Aww. I get all warm and fuzzy inside just thinking about Erik as a daddy. :) **

**And at the same time, I am so incredibly sad to see this story coming to a close. I'm almost tempted to let it sit for another year or so ….**

–**cowers- I'm KIDDING!**

**But in all seriousness, I've only got another five or six chapters to go on this story, and I'm really trying to savor it. Hence, the unusually long chapters. ;)**

**Anyways, yay for E/C fluff, I know you guys have been craving it, and secretly I was too. **


	65. Endurance

**A/N: Gah, words cannot describe my love of Susan Kay's "Phantom." I was struck with the sudden urge to sit down and re-read the entire **_**Nadir **_**segment of the novel, and did so in one sitting. Immediately after, my muse began to itch to write, and this chapter was the result. So, Kay references ahoy!**

**If you haven't read Chapter 61 yet (it's E/C, if that motivates you any), go do so.**

**I'm sure by now you all know how much I **_**loathe**_** point-of-view swaps, but with all the characters crammed into one lair, it's unavoidable in this chapter, I'm afraid. Bear with me, and buckle your seatbelts!**

**----------------------------------------------------------**

Both women looked up from their sandwiches with a start when the doorbell rang. Mother and daughter exchanged confused glances before Meg rose from her chair and trotted over to the door. Her curiosity only increased tenfold when she opened it to find a dark-skinned stranger on her doorstep, his hat held respectfully against his chest.

"Good afternoon, Mademoiselle… Meg, I take it?"

Her mother slipped past her hastily before the stunned little blonde had a chance to answer. "Monsieur Khan, what a pleasant surprise! Please, come inside, we are just sitting down to lunch, and we—"

"You'll forgive me, Madame Giry," he interrupted, bowing slightly, "But I'm afraid I must decline and ask you to come with me at once."

Her cheeks paled. "God in Heaven, which of them is it this time?"

Meg looked from her mother to the dark-skinned man with mounting confusion. They seemed to be speaking in a code, and she scrambled to decipher it. She had never seen this man before in her life, but evidently he and her mother were familiar…

"Christine," he answered.

"Is she - ?"

"About half an hour ago. She requested your presence."

At that, Madame Giry lurched into motion, ducking in the house only long enough to grab a shawl and bonnet. Meg followed, flabbergasted, understanding only that her friend was in danger.

"I'm coming too!" she insisted, making to grab her own cloak from its hook on the wall. Her mother's hand clamped firmly onto her arm, stopping her.

"No, Meg. Not this time." Madame Giry glanced at the man on the doorstep, and he inclined his head slightly in agreement. "Monsieur Erik will not be in the mood for extra visitors. He will be anxious enough as it is."

Understanding suddenly dawned on the Giry girl's pretty face. "Christine… is she having the baby?"

"Yes, darling," her mother said, smoothing her hair and kissing her on the forehead. "And I will see to it that she knows you are in her thoughts and prayers. But you must stay here, do you understand me? I will send for you when the child is born and everyone has settled down."

"But I want to—"

"Your mother is right, Mademoiselle," the dark-skinned man interjected softly. "I understand your fear for your friend, but the best thing you can do for her at the moment is to stay out of Erik's way. Your mother and I have experience in dealing with his … his _episodes_, but you, my dear, would do well to keep far away from him for the time-being."

Ingrained fear of the Phantom's wrath stilled the protest on Meg's tongue, and she hung her head in defeat. "Very well," she sighed. "But you promise to send for me - ?"

"Just as soon as I can," her mother swore, already halfway down the steps. The dark-skinned man helped her up onto the back of a fiery chestnut mare, mounted behind her, and the two riders cantered off in the direction of the opera house.

---------------------------------------------------

To be honest, Nadir fully expected to return to find Erik's lair in shambles, ripped apart by his destructive restlessness. He noted that Madame Giry seemed to share the sentiment, for her shoulders were tense with anticipation as they strode into the candlelight. They both looked around the empty cavern in surprise; the lair was silent, and Nadir noted that someone had cleaned up the mess where Christine's water had broken.

Exchanging nervous glances, the pair headed in unison for the Louis-Philippe room, dreading what they would find beyond the red curtain.

The concern on their faces dissolved into absolute incredulity when they found Erik and Christine curled up on the giant swan bed, both fast asleep. Madame Giry was the first to recover; she turned silently on her heel, taking Nadir by the wrist and guiding him back out into the main room.

"Let sleeping dogs lie," she murmured under her breath, once they were out of earshot of the sleeping couple.

"Agreed."

"Her water broke, what – perhaps an hour ago?"

Nadir consulted his pocket watch and nodded. "That sounds about right."

The ballet mistress began to pace, wringing her pale hands. "Was she nervous?"

"Naturally. She was terrified when I made to leave. I asked if I could bring her anything, and she immediately asked for you." He smiled faintly.

Giry nodded, running a hand over her eyes. "I am the only mother she has ever known. Charlotte Daaé died in childbirth." She ceased pacing and fixed him with a long stare, her blue eyes shining with barely-concealed terror. "I just pray…"

"None of that," Nadir insisted, averting his gaze. "Christine is young and strong, and she has had a normal, healthy pregnancy. We have no reason to believe that she should suffer her mother's fate."

"You're right," she sighed. His reassurances seemed to work at least a little, for the tension between her shoulders slackened just slightly. "Of course, you're right." Still, she did not seem entirely convinced; after a few beats of pressing silence, she began to pace again. For his part, the Persian settled in the large velvet throne, steepling his fingers under his chin in his customary thinking position.

A tense silence fell between them, broken only by the tapping of Giry's heels on the stone floor. Each became lost in their private thoughts, and it was nearly an hour before they heard the first stirrings of motion from the Louis-Philippe room.

This time it was Nadir who was the first in motion; he grabbed the black leather bag he had retrieved from home and catapulted across the room, with Giry right on his heels. They exploded through the curtain without hesitance or courtesy, and were met with Erik's livid green eyes.

"What took you so long?" he snapped, cradling Christine protectively against his chest. She was biting down hard on her lip, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, her face scrunched in pain.

Ignoring him, Madame Giry fell to her knees beside the bed and took one of Christine's pale hands in her own. "Breathe, Christine, don't hold it in."

The young woman let her breath out and drew another in sharply, her eyes flying wide in relief. "Madame Giry… you're here…"

"Of course I am," she said, smoothing a care-worn hand over Christine's brow. "Now take a deep breath. In…. now let it out. Good. Good girl. Now another…"

Nadir's eyes darted helplessly from the women to Erik and back again. The medicines and instruments he had brought from home would be no good to her this early in labor, and he suddenly felt extremely useless, standing at the foot of the bed with his little black bag. It appeared that Erik shared the sentiment, for he ran his hands up and down his lover's arms, jealousy gleaming in his eyes as Christine ignored him in favor of Madame Giry's comfort. Suddenly Nadir understood that his responsibility, for the time being, was perhaps the most burdensome and dangerous of all – he was in charge of keeping Erik under control and out of the way.

Gritting his teeth to stifle a groan, the Persian set the bag down on the end of the bed and cleared his throat to catch Erik's attention. Once he had his gaze, he jerked his head meaningfully toward the main room. Erik scowled and tightened his arms petulantly around Christine's hips, like a little boy clutching a beloved plaything.

Fortunately, it seemed that her contraction was fading, for Christine gradually relaxed, still breathing deeply with Madame Giry's guidance. The ballet mistress nodded once she fell limp, praised her for her efforts, and then turned her severe gaze up to Erik.

"I am quite sure that Christine is in need of something to drink, and perhaps a light meal. She will need her strength in the upcoming hours. Why don't you make yourself useful and go prepare a bit of lunch for all of us, hmm, Erik?"

"Really, Madame Giry, I'm f—" Christine stopped short when the ballet mistress fixed her with that same severe glare, and changed tactics immediately. "… Famished! Erik, I'd like nothing more right now than some chicken stew and a hot cup of tea." She looked up at him with a perfectly disarming smile. "And I'm certain our guests are hungry too." When his glare did not falter, she pulled him down to her, kissing him softly. "I'm fine, love, really. Just hungry. Would you please make us some lunch? Please?"

Nadir was certain that the Shah himself could not have refused Christine in that moment. Stifling a smirk at her cunning, the daroga locked his face into a neutral expression as Erik got to his feet and gruffly stormed out of the room.

"I'll… just… go see if he needs any help," he said, offering a wink and a bow before leaving the women in peace.

By the time he caught up with Erik in the kitchen, his friend had already removed half a chicken from the ice box, doused it in water, and begun to hack at it with a butter knife. Nadir rolled his eyes and swallowed the urge to verbally correct his friend's brash behavior; he knew that if he tried Erik's temper, that knife – blunt and ineffectual as it was – would find itself lodged between his ribs. With patience honed by years and years of practice, he meekly strode into the kitchen, dug through the cluttered drawers for a few minutes, and eventually procured a long, serrated knife.

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to start chopping vegetables while I carve the rest of the chicken?" he suggested mildly, careful not to make eye contact. "We will finish more quickly if we work on separate tasks."

Erik hissed something in a language Nadir wasn't familiar with, but he was fairly sure he understood the gist of it. Still, Erik dropped the butter knife with a resounding clatter and went digging through the cupboards for carrots, onions, and dried peas. When he found them, he slammed them down onto the counter beside the Daroga and scrubbed them as if they had done him some great personal injury.

_Voodoo vegetables, _the Persian thought, biting his lip to stifle a laugh at his own private joke. _Now that's a new one._

Pretending not to notice his friend's childish rampage, the Daroga began to hum cheerfully as he sliced the chicken into long, thin strips. No sooner had ten notes burbled past his lips, however, than Erik's temper snapped.

"You're flat," he sneered, as he began to chop carrots with a vengeance.

This time Nadir couldn't keep the snort of laughter back, but his hand flew up immediately to his mouth as he feigned a wheezing coughing fit. Once he was fairly sure he could keep his voice level, he answered, "Are you surprised? Come, Erik, you know my singing voice resembles that of… oh, blast… I forget. What was it?"

"A donkey in heat," said Erik without looking up. Though his face remained locked in an icy glare, he began to chop more gently. Nadir's eyes glittered in triumph; he was more than happy to sacrifice his dignity for the time-being if it meant alleviating some of Erik's stress. Humor, he often found, was a great peacemaker when it came to their odd friendship – especially when it was humor at his own expense.

"Right." He chuckled good-naturedly. "We've discussed this. My singing would make dogs cower in pain."

Erik snorted. "Daroga, your so-called 'singing' would make the unfortunate creatures fall dead in their tracks."

"Well _pardonnez-moi_, Monsieur Le Ange de Musique," the Persian huffed, feigning offense. "But we cannot all be musical deities, now, can we?"

"I was not aware that it took a musical deity to hum in tune," Erik answered coolly, finishing with the carrots and moving on to the onions.

"Perhaps it takes a musical ear to even notice that I was off key in the first place."

Erik shook his head, and the candlelight caught the faintest glint of humor in his eyes. "Well, one would think that eventually the line-up of dead dogs would be a good indicator."

"Or perhaps a male donkey responding to its mating call," the Persian laughed. At that, even Erik's stony visage cracked in a smile. "There's a mental image for you, eh? Me, running through the streets, dodging around carcasses of Paris's strays, with a lusting donkey on my trail?"

With a snort of laughter, Erik waved his free hand in encouragement. "On second thought, old friend, hum on…"

"Thank you, no," said the Daroga, slicing off a few more slivers of chicken before returning the rest to the ice box. "I've always been a dog person, myself."

"I only ever liked one." Sensing a back story, the Persian quirked an eyebrow, and with a nonchalant shrug, Erik continued, "I had a spaniel as a boy. She was the first creature to show me affection, and I must say, I… grew quite fond of her."

Nadir did not miss the hint of sadness that crept over Erik's eyes as he spoke about the little dog. He knew better than to pry into what had become of his childhood pet, and instead offered optimistically, "Perhaps you could have another dog someday?"

"We have already discussed it," Erik said, scooping the vegetables into a pot and placing it over the stove. "I promised Christine a pup and a kitten, come spring, when we move into the house at Perros-Guirec." As he stirred the pot's contents, Erik's green eyes slowly began to glaze over as he became lost in his thoughts. Nadir busied himself with dicing the chicken, and did not notice the storm brewing in his friend's eyes until Erik suddenly dropped the spoon with a clatter.

"Erik, what the Devil—?"

His friend turned his back to him, clutching to the counter with trembling white knuckles.

"Tell me about your wife," he said darkly. "Your Rookheeya…"

"Erik…" The Persian's voice was tainted with a dark edge that simultaneously warned and begged him not to press the subject.

Ignoring him, his friend continued doggedly, "How did you feel, in those moments before the door closed on the birthing room? In those last moments when you held her, when she sobbed under the agony that you had inflicted on her… how did you breathe, Nadir? How did… how did you…" Suddenly, without warning, he crumpled to the floor, sobbing.

The Persian stood like a statue, the knife still and glinting in his hands. He could not have answered if he wanted to, could not force his leaden muscles to move to comfort his tormented friend.

"How could you stand there and listen to her scream – beg for death? How could you just stand there, Daroga, when you heard your son's first cries, but not your wife's sighs of relief? How, damn you, _tell me how_!"

Nadir said nothing. It seemed that hours ticked by in excruciating silence before Erik climbed slowly to his feet and placed a hand on the Persian's shoulder. Agony and shame seemed to radiate from his very pores.

"Forgive me," he whispered.

At last, the Persian closed his eyes briefly on tears, reopened them, and resumed cutting the chicken as if he had never been interrupted. "You are frightened and laden with guilt, Erik. It is understandable that—"

"Don't make excuses for me," he barked. "I should never…" He swallowed. "I crossed a line, Daroga, and I have breached your trust. I'm… I'm very sorry."

Pursing his lips, Nadir nodded, not trusting himself to speak just yet. After a few awkward moments, Erik turned to pick up the spoon and stir the contents of the pot. The two men continued to work in silence until all of the ingredients were bubbling in a stew, the leftover food returned to its proper place, and the kitchen scrubbed spotless. The time had allowed Nadir to think, and when the two men at last stood still, their chores completed, he finally raised his pained gaze to Erik's.

"Sit with me," he said, gesturing to the chairs he and Christine had occupied just a few hours earlier. "We need to have a talk, you and I."

"Daroga, you don't have to do this. I already told you, I—"

"Enough," Nadir snapped with uncharacteristic sharpness. His tone softened slightly at the genuine look of remorse on his friend's face. "You had your chance to talk, Erik. Now it is my turn. Please, sit down."

Looking very much as if it were physically paining him to do so, Erik complied. The Persian lowered himself slowly into the armchair opposite him, suddenly feeling much, much older than he actually was. His muscles felt heavy, his head ached, and he wanted nothing more than to fly out of that godforsaken cellar, to run from his past, from the pain of the old scars that Erik had so deftly sliced open. But one long look into the tormented eyes of the man before him kept him anchored to that armchair, ready to rip the bleeding wounds a little wider for the sake of his best friend in the world.

"You never truly recover, Erik," he said quietly, after a long stretch of silence had passed between them. "That proverb… 'time heals all wounds'… it is a bald-faced lie. The best you can do is to try to distract yourself, to hurl yourself into work or opium or a prostitute's arms. And it works… for a while." He swallowed against the painful lump that had formed in his throat, and saw Erik do the same. Neither dared to meet the other man's eyes. "But even now, when she has been dead twenty seven years… I still wake up, expecting to smell her on my pillow. I walk into the kitchen and expect to find her fussing over supper. As I drift off to sleep, I reach for her, to pull her close, and find only cold sheets. You never… never get over that, Erik. Never." His voice had become weak and choked with emotion, and he stopped speaking until he was certain he could continue without breaking down.

"Birthing is women's business, Erik… it always has been. I was overlooked, as a child, because I was quiet and helpful, and mostly stayed out of the way. I witnessed the miracle of childbirth hundreds of times, and learned much simply by observing. It wasn't until I learned to blush at the sight of a woman that I was banned from the birthing room and forbidden to return. Even for Reza's birth." His eyes hardened. "The officiating midwife was young and inexperienced. I didn't trust her, and I told Rookheeya as much. She laughed at me and told me I was being ridiculous, and that I was simply projecting my own nerves on the poor girl. So I laughed it off too, and kissed her and told her I loved her and would see her and our child in a few hours. The midwife shut the door in my face and that was the last time I saw my wife alive."

Sometime during the tale, Erik had buried his head in his hands, hunched over in his chair with his elbows resting on his knees. He looked like he was deep in a trance, but Nadir knew that he was listening intently to every word.

"I will not try to give voice to the measure of pain I felt that day, Erik." The Daroga's voice was barely a whisper. "There is nothing in the world to compare it to, except perhaps the loss of a child…" He shook his head. "But that is another story, and one that you are already painfully familiar with, my old friend."

At last, Erik spoke, but his own voice was so weak that for a moment the Persian thought he had imagined it. "Nadir, I…"

"Hush," he said gently. "There's no need." Straightening his shoulders, he let out a deep, painful sigh. "The point of this story, Erik, is not to frighten you, or to steel you for the hours ahead, or even to offer you camaraderie in your pain, for I can, thankfully, almost assure you that it will not be necessary." His tone had become professional and detached – the raw, broken side of him turned inwards once more, protected from the harsh bite of exposure.

Erik said nothing, but slowly looked up at him with the yearning of a frightened child seeking a parent's reassurance after a nightmare. Looking his friend squarely in the eye, Nadir asked, "Do you trust me?"

"Yes," whispered the frightened man before him.

The Persian's eyes crinkled warmly, and he laid a hand on his friend's trembling shoulder. "Then believe me when I say that she will be just fine. She is young and in good health, and by all indications, so is the child. Between Madame Giry and myself, we have both expertise and experience on our side. As for you, I can tell you honestly that the very worst thing you can do for Christine right now is to fall to pieces. She is afraid, and her fear will only mount with her pain. You will need to be the strong one, here; you need to support her and talk her through this. So I would suggest that if you intend to be of any use to your beloved, straighten that spine, dry your eyes, and go stir the stew before it starts sticking to the bottom of the pot."

He was only mildly surprised when Erik rose to his feet and obeyed silently.

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Christine could only ever remember experiencing this kind of pain once: in the first few days of her miscarriage, when her muscles had clenched in unrelenting spasms, causing her to sob and writhe in unimaginable pain.

She had barely been in labor three hours, and already her contractions, which had been so deceptively mild and unimposing at first, had intensified to that same degree of pain, climbing to red-hot pinnacles that left her writhing in agony.

Repeatedly she turned prayers of thanks up to the Heavens for Madame Giry, who had been there to guide her steadily through the worst of the pain so far. Her mother figure sat patiently at her side, patting her forehead with a damp washcloth and reminding her to breathe deeply through each spasm. Christine's instinct was to hold her breath against the nearly unbearable pain, but she found that her mentor was right, as usual; the cool oxygen flowing steadily in and out of her lungs helped to keep her mind calm and focused.

"Just remember the _purpose_, Christine," Giry reminded her at the climax of her pain and frustration. "Your body is doing this for a reason. Each muscle contraction pushes the baby further into its proper position for delivery, so that it can slip more easily through your pelvic bone. It hurts, as it must, for your muscles to push such a large, healthy child through such a small place, do you understand?"

Christine clinched her eyes shut and nodded as she listened intently, taking comfort from the words: "healthy child."This time, the pain was not a punishment – not a merciless trial by fire to expel the remains of the fetus she had unknowingly murdered by neglect. No… this time, her child was alive and well – she felt it struggle against her too-tight womb between contractions. It was time for her baby to enter the world, and she understood that only through this blinding pain could the feat be accomplished. She was ready – her heart, mind and body strong and willing to push this child into _life_.

As her latest contraction subsided, she fell limp against the crushed velvet of the bed. A few chestnut curls were plastered to her forehead, and Madame Giry stroked them back gently, cooing at her like a loving nursemaid.

"Rest, my dear. You have done very well. Would you like to eat a bit more soup?"

Wearily, Christine eyed the tray that Nadir had brought in for her. When it had first arrived, between contractions, she had been only too eager to begin gobbling down the delicious chicken stew. But when the next spasm had begun, ripping at her womb with a sharp, stabbing pain, she had abandoned the half-eaten soup and not touched it since. She was still hungry, but felt too tired to do anything more at the moment than lay still.

"Erik," she murmured sleepily. "Where is Erik?"

A light smile touched the ballet mistress's lips. "Undoubtedly smashing some highly valuable objects. Would you like me to find him?"

Christine nodded, then allowed her head to fall to the side, her heavy eyes slipping shut. She felt the mattress lift as Madame Giry went off in search of her beloved.

She must have drifted off, for she felt herself being drawn gently from the dark tide of sleep by a familiar, calloused hand stroking her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open, and focused slowly upon Erik's face. His forehead was creased in a concerned frown, but his eyes glowed with a warm tenderness as he gazed into hers.

"How are you feeling, _mon ange_?" he whispered.

"Tired," came her hoarse reply. She tried to smile. "And a little hungry."

Without a moment's hesitation, Erik picked up the soup bowl and held it in his lap, then brought a spoonful of the delicious stew to her lips. Christine opened and allowed him to feed her like a small child, appreciation and pure love shining in her honey-colored eyes.

"Are you in pain?" he asked as he pulled the empty spoon from her mouth and dipped it into the bowl again.

"Not right now," she answered honestly. After swallowing another spoonful, she arched her hips slightly, testing herself. Her womb ached dully, as any other muscle would after being exerted forcefully, but it was nothing compared to the wracking pain of the contraction itself. At the movement, the baby began to squirm in protest once more, beating its tiny feet against the wall of Christine's womb. With a wry smile, she said, "But your daughter is making it very clear that she is most displeased about being confined to such uncomfortable living quarters. Here, feel." She took one of his hands and pressed it to the spot on her belly which their child was kicking ferociously.

So wrapped up was he in the wondrous feeling of his child's movement that it took Erik a moment to register what Christine had just said. "Daughter?" he echoed, one of his eyebrows rising doubtfully. "What makes you so sure it's a girl?"

"Just a feeling," Christine said with a sleepy smile, then opened her mouth to indicate that she wanted another bite of soup. Her fiancé obliged, but his doubtful expression did not waver.

"Interesting. My instincts have always told me that the child is male."

"Really?" She stared down at her belly inquisitively, as if the child would suddenly do something to prove its sex one way or the other. But the baby seemed to have worn itself out from its fiery exertions, for it lay quietly beneath its parents' hands. A smile crept its way across Christine's face, and she looked up at her beloved. "Well I suppose we'll know soon enough, won't we?"

She did not miss the flicker of fear in his green eyes. "Yes, I suppose we will."

They sat in companionable silence as Erik spooned the remainder of the lukewarm stew into her mouth. When she finished, he asked if she wished for another bowl, and she shook her head, reaching her arms up to him lethargically.

"Just lay here with me?"

He didn't need to be asked twice. Abandoning the empty bowl, he kicked off his boots and crawled under the covers beside her. Even with the cumbersome mound of her belly, Christine still fit perfectly into the crook of his arm. She nuzzled into the familiar, warm flesh of his chest and inhaled indulgently, taking in his musky, intoxicating scent. Internally, she drew strength from him in those quiet moments, knowing that she would need it soon.

They had barely been laying there in the peaceful quiet for three minutes before the next contraction began to build deep within her. Remembering Madame Giry's instructions to breathe against the pain, she sucked in a full breath of cold air to steel herself, and rolled slowly out of Erik's embrace and onto her back.

"Christine?" his voice was tainted with panic, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

"I'm fine, just… please fetch Madame Giry for me. I need her."

She knew, without looking, that his face was drawn with hurt. Nevertheless, he rolled out of bed and slipped out into the main room without protest. Her heart sank with guilt, but she tried her best to push it aside. This was the way it would have to be, she suddenly understood – she needed Madame Giry to guide her through the contractions themselves, and in between, she needed to rest in the comfort of Erik's arms. For now, she needed to be selfish; for her own well-being, and that of her tiny child.

_Daughter, _her mind corrected insistently. And, just in case Erik was right, as usual, she forcibly added, _or son…_

A ripping pain knifed through Christine's lower abdomen just as Madame Giry re-entered through the curtain and settled beside her, reminding her in a gentle murmur, for the hundredth time, to breathe. Arching in pain and obediently gasping for breath, she gripped the bed sheets determinedly.

It was going to be a very long night…

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**A/N: Okay, so this story might wind up being a little longer than the anticipated 70 chapters… but that's because I'm purposefully dawdling now. I figure you don't mind these long chapters, do you? No, didn't think so.**

**Come, come, the stats section doesn't lie, my friends. We have already established that I am a vile, evil little brat of an authoress who tortured you for a very long time without updates. But even vile, evil little brats like feedback for their efforts! Continued thank you, bowing, scraping, etc. to those faithful reviewers who have stayed with me – and to those of you who are reading in silence, know that I am a blatant REVIEW WHORE and the more you review, the more motivated I am to continue at a relatively quick pace. Just saying. ;)**


	66. Clarity

**A/N: This has honestly been the most difficult chapter I've ever written – primarily because there has been so much buildup to this moment, but also because my muse was on a long vacation, and was none too keen to return to work. Writer's block is the **_**plague**_**, I tell you! **

**Standard apologies apply – come, come, my friends, you know me by now. ;)**

**Your random "Evergreen" fact of the day: Each of my characters is physically mirrored to their 2004 film counterparts (i.e. I write Christine as Emmy Rossum, Madame Giry as Miranda Richardson, etc.), but two of my main characters – Nadir and Emily – were not in the film. In order to consistently write them in this story, I chose actors upon which to base them. Of course, I encourage everyone to envision these characters however they'd like, but just in case anyone is curious: Emily is based on the actress Emily Mortimer (but with brown eyes), whom you can see onscreen with our very own Gerry Butler in the gorgeous film **_**Dear Frankie**_**. My Nadir is based on the extremely talented Ben Kingsley, circa **_**Gandhi**_**. **

**I had a feeling I'd be violently murdered if I jumped to Raoul and Emily after such a long hiatus… so, E/C it is! Haha.**

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As if the labor itself were not brutal enough, relentless back spasms plagued the poor child all night. She arched uselessly against them, her angelic face contorting in a red twist. It was all Madame Giry could do to lay her former pupil on her left side, hugging her knees to her chest, while the ballet mistress's careworn palms rubbed rhythmic circles along Christine's spine. Her arthritic wrists were aching now from the kneading motion, but she continued with tight-lipped determination, knowing that it was nothing compared to the pain that was blitzing through the soon-to-be-mother.

_Very soon, if the intensity of her labor is any indicator, _Giry mused, frowning thoughtfully down at her charge.

When the latest contraction subsided, Christine allowed her head to fall back against the pillow with a frustrated cry. "I don't… think I can… do this… much longer," she panted, tears mingling with the streams of sweat that already lined her cheeks.

"You are doing very well," Giry assured her, though her own face was drawn and weary. "These are the worst pains – the final, forceful contractions that move the child into place for delivery. Take heart, my dear; it won't be long now."

Christine sniffled and wiped her sleeve across her face miserably. "I'm thirsty."

Silently thankful for an excuse to stop massaging, Giry flexed her stiff muscles and rose to her feet with a cacophony of cracks and pops. She tested the weight of the water pitcher at Christine's bedside, and found it nearly empty – the perfect justification for a temporary role-swap.

Holding the pitcher up to Christine's line of eyesight, Giry gestured to the main room. "I'll go refill this, and send Monsieur Khan in to check on your progress. Will you be all right for just a moment?"

Christine nodded and buried her face in the cool pillowcase, too tired to answer. With a quick, maternal pat on the child's curly head, the ballet mistress limped over to the curtain.

The glare from the candlelight in the main room was enough to temporarily blind her, and she shook her head to try to clear it. They had kept the Louis-Philippe room purposefully dim and warm, in as soothing an environment as they could create for Christine's labor. Giry shivered now, caught by a draft off the underground lake, and hugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders. A quick survey of the room found Nadir asleep in an armchair with a book sprawled across his lap, and Erik nowhere to be seen.

_Probably off smashing something highly valuable, _the ballet mistress thought with a weary sigh. She supposed it was her turn to track him down; the poor Persian had been saddled with keeping Erik's temper in check all night.

She cleared her throat as she approached the armchair, and Nadir's bloodshot green eyes jolted open.

"Madame Giry!" he gasped, his cheeks darkening in a blush. "I was just—"

"Reading," she finished for him, nodding at the open book in his lap. "Of course." With a tired smile, she held up the empty water pitcher. "Christine needs a glass of water. I wondered if you would check on her. I do believe she should be ready to deliver within the hour."

"Yes, yes, of course," the Persian stammered as he climbed to his feet. "How far apart are her pains?"

"Three minutes or so. They are frightfully intense now – she is tiring fast."

Nadir's features softened sympathetically as he grabbed his black bag. "I'm sure you have been a great encouragement to her."

"I'm trying," Giry sighed. "But with pain such as this, there is very little anyone can say or do to help. She must find unprecedented strength within herself." The ballet mistress gave a small smile. "Fortunately, Christine has grown into a very strong young woman indeed."

The Persian returned the smile, his green eyes flickering in the candlelight. "Well, she had a magnificent role model," he said softly.

A warm blush crept up into her cheeks, and she lowered her gaze. "You really think so?"

"I do."

Giry's breath caught in her chest as he took a slow, careful step closer to her. Her eyes snapped up to meet his, and their gazes locked in a stare that made her heart flutter like a young girl's. Her lips parted of their own accord, and she found herself leaning forward, closer…

"Forgive the intrusion…" said a voice to her right, causing her to jump and drop the water pitcher with an embarrassingly loud clang.

"Erik!" she and Nadir cried in unison.

"… but I must implore you to suspend your own romantic endeavors until my fiancée is no longer in need of your immediate services." Erik's green eyes glinted with a harrowing combination of amusement and impatience. Both Giry and Nadir blushed profusely, and where they had been incapable of looking away from one another a few seconds ago, now they didn't dare cast even a quick glance in the other's direction.

The Persian was the first to recover, running a hand back through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Naturally, Christine is everyone's priority. If… if you will both excuse me, I'll just… go check on her now."

Giry kept her eyes down, her lips pursed, and her hands clasped in front of her until Nadir's footsteps faded. It was enough time for her to compose her wits, and harness her frustration into a well-pointed spear.

When it was safe, she turned a piercing glare upon her masked friend. "How very sophisticated of you, Erik."

He quirked one dark eyebrow. "Considering the vast array of amusing lines I could have inserted at that moment, I thought I chose rather maturely."

Decidedly afraid to follow that particular train of thought, Giry swiftly changed courses. "And what precisely have _you_ been up to these past few hours? Lassoing rats? Smashing teacups? Setting fire to the upper levels?"

"Not quite." To her annoyance, Erik neither seemed flustered by her accusations, nor did he rise to her challenge. Instead, he shrugged a shoulder and turned toward the nearest hallway. "Come," he commanded calmly.

Eager for any sort of distraction from her still-fluttering heartbeat, she followed him into the darkness. On any normal day, she managed to keep up with him by putting forth two strides to each one of his, but her joints were stiff from sitting so long at Christine's bedside, and she quickly found herself falling behind. After three flights of stairs and too many turns to remember, every bone in her body was smarting, and she called out to him irritably.

"Erik, I swear, if this is some wild goose chase…"

"Almost there," his bodiless voice promised from several meters ahead. Swallowing a groan, Giry continued to limp forward, entertaining herself by thinking up all the delightful ways she would exact revenge if this whole thing wound up being another of Erik's infamous hoaxes.

Completely blind in the darkness, she knew to stop only when Erik's footsteps halted. He struck a match and held it to a torch on the wall, and Giry blinked as her eyes adjusted to the sudden light. They were in a corridor she didn't recognize, and Erik held up the torch to a dark room off to his right.

"In here," he gestured with the torch. Giry watched him warily, but found no flicker of deceit in his eyes. He stepped forward into the room, and she had no choice but to follow.

The room appeared to be one of the opera house's many workshops. The pungent smell of sawdust hit her immediately, and there were several piles of lumber and woodworking tools scattered throughout the chamber. The scaffolding and major set pieces had probably been carved and assembled here, she reasoned. But she hadn't the faintest idea why Erik had brought her here now.

"It's not done yet," he mumbled from the far corner of the room, more to himself than to her, "It still needs a coat of finish, but I didn't know if there would be time…"

Giry stepped around a large pile of lumber, and finally saw what Erik was muttering to himself about: a Swedish cradle was tucked in the far corner of the room, crafted out of cherry wood and decorated with delicate, hand-carved roses.

"Erik," she gasped, moving forward to feel the polished wood for herself. "It's… it's exquisite!"

He turned his hopeful gaze to her, and the eager little boy she had once known stared out at her, begging for her approval. "Do you think Christine will like it?"

She smiled brightly, fingering one of the tiny, intricate roses carved into the bars. "I think it fairly safe to say that she will love it. Such beautiful craftsmanship, Erik. You spared no detail in this… look at the veins on the leaves, the shading on the petals! How long did this take you to build?"

He shrugged, and ran a finger across the headboard thoughtfully. "The frame only took a few hours, but I've been whittling away on the roses for the better part of three weeks."

"And Christine didn't miss you?"

His lips curled in amusement. "I used to think Christine slept a great deal _before_ she was with child. Now she seems to be perpetually exhausted; she sleeps at least three hours during the day, and ten more at night. My compositions tended to wake her, so I took to another, more practical project to pass the time."

Giry shook her head in awe, her fingers still moving lightly over the carvings. "Well, if this cradle is any indicator, I think you would make just as extraordinary a craftsman as you would a composer. Honestly, Erik, is there any trade you can't master?"

His eyes became glazed for a moment, as if his thoughts were far away. Slowly, they shifted to her, and she saw an ocean of insecurity buried in those green depths, built from a lifetime of neglect.

"Ironic, isn't it?" he whispered, shaking his head in despair. "Give me a block of wood or a violin, and with it I will build you a masterpiece." He turned away, so that only the masked side of his face was visible in the torchlight. "But when I was granted the one thing I had ever truly desired, it seemed the only thing I could do was taint it." He let out a shaky sigh. "And so it will be with the child, I fear. I have merely succeeded in crafting a beautiful vessel to cradle a disaster in the making."

The ballet mistress lowered her eyes to the floor, and spoke as softly and soothingly as she could. "Don't say that. We've all make mistakes, Erik. Terrible ones. But you've got to stop looking to the past – the only thing it will grant you is agony."

"How?" he whispered. "How can I forget what I've done to her – what we've been through?"

"You can't," she answered simply, "and I would never suggest such a thing. If we are to learn from our mistakes, so that the history is never repeated, we must never _forget_. But to move forward, Erik – to find happiness, and security, and all those things you so deeply crave, you must be able to look at that past, to acknowledge it for its flaws, and to _forgive_. Forgive Christine for leaving you—"

"I already have," he insisted.

"—Forgive your mother her ignorance; God knows she suffered for it. Forgive all those who have been cruel and unjust to you, for they, too, will one day suffer the brunt of their sins. But most importantly, Erik, you must learn to forgive yourself. You have committed terrible deeds, and suffered most greatly for them. It is time to stop punishing yourself. You have everything you've ever wanted or needed right in front of you. The woman you have loved your entire life returns that love, and is willing to devote the rest of her life to sharing it with you. Tonight she will bear you a _child_, Erik, the ultimate symbol of that shared love! But for whatever reason, it seems that you feel the need to deny yourself the right to be loved unconditionally by both of them, to live life as a normal man…"

He refused to look at her, and his voice was choked with tears now. "I… I cannot help but fear that I will ruin this child, as I almost ruined Christine. If he bears my face, he will already be ruined by his father. And if he is fortunate enough to bear his mother's face, why would he choose to love me, a monster? I will be an embarrassment, a blemish on the life that he could have had, if I were that 'normal man' of which you speak." He let out a hoarse sob, and rested his forehead against the wall. "Either way, I am the poison that taints their lives. How can I forgive myself for that?"

Giry studied his crumpled form for several moments before raising her chin, and taking a determined step forward. With one quick movement, she ripped the mask from his face, placed her hands on his shoulders, and turned him to face her.

"You may be a great magician, monsieur," she said firmly, "But even you cannot tell what the future will bring. Each moment offers opportunity, Erik, if one is brave enough to take it. You are many things, but a coward is not one of them. Besides, I have never known you to offer anything less than the best to Christine. She tells me of the newly-restored home that you bought for her in Perros-Guirec. There are excellent schools near there, are there not?"

Erik blinked back his tears, and nodded slowly.

"And other children to play with?"

He nodded again.

"It seems to me that your child will certainly be well-equipped for a happy and successful life. He will live in a beautiful home, with the means to live comfortably, get a good education, make friends…" She paused, and made sure Erik looked her straight in the eye. "But truly, all that your child needs, Erik – all any child really needs – is to know that he is loved unconditionally; to know that even if his face is scarred, even if he cannot catch a ball, even if his handwriting is sloppy, or if he spills his milk all over your latest composition, that you will continue to accept and love him for who he is. I believe that your mother's failure to give that to you has been the root of every disaster in your life, far more than your twisted face ever was." As she gripped his arms, staring into his eyes, her heart thrilled as she started to see the wheels moving in his genius head. "This is your opportunity, Erik, to look to the past, and note the terrible, terrible mistakes made – and learn from them."

Slowly, she took a step back, releasing her grip on his arms. A gentle smile lit her face as she extended a hand toward the door. "Now come along, Monsieur Guerrier… your greatest masterpiece is due to arrive any moment now."

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Even through the red haze of pain, Christine could tell that something was different about Erik. He burst into the room with Giry on his heels, dropped to his knees beside her bed and smoothed her damp curls away from her face, blatantly ignoring the daroga's nervous suggestion that he leave the room, as the baby was on its way.

"I'm here now," he whispered, staring at her as if she were the most beautiful thing in the world, even though she was drenched in sweat, red-cheeked and trembling with exhaustion. There was a deep meaning behind his words, and she searched his bottomless green eyes for it. She almost didn't recognize what she saw there; gone was the constant insecurity that followed him like a shadow – the fear, the anxiety that she had tried to drown in love, only to see him draw further away from her. He had been her constant companion and a great help during these past few weeks, but he had erected an impenetrable wall between them ever since she'd come back, and no matter how she had tried to beat it down, she couldn't seem to get through to him. That wall was gone now – she saw only raw emotion reflected in those beautiful green eyes, and love… bottomless, fathomless love.

Tears of pain turned to tears of relief, and she kissed him breathlessly, thanking God or Madame Giry or whatever blessed being had finally managed to get through to her impossible, beloved Erik's head.

She broke the kiss with a gasp as blinding, piercing pain ripped through her abdomen, and she felt the child slip lower in her pelvis. There was a sudden, new pressure, and she felt the immediate, unrelenting urge to push against it.

"It's time," Nadir announced from the foot of the bed. "Erik, fetch hot water and some towels."

Christine panicked, and latched onto her fiancé's hand with a death vise. "No, don't leave me, Erik. Don't leave me…"

"I'll get them," Madame Giry offered, and ducked swiftly out of the room.

The pain slowly eased, but the urge to push did not; breathless and scared, Christine continued to push until Nadir placed a gentle hand on her knee.

"Rest between contractions, Christine, and catch your breath. Your pushes will be far more productive if you correlate them with the natural movements of the uterine muscles."

She nodded her understanding and leaned her sweaty forehead against Erik's knuckles, panting for breath.

"What can I do?" Erik asked his friend.

"Exactly what you're doing now," said Nadir. "Hold her hand, and comfort her."

Giry re-entered with towels swung over her shoulder and a basin of steaming water in her hands just as the next contraction seized Christine. She looked to Nadir quickly for reassurance, and he nodded.

"Push down as hard as you can… good! Try not to hold the tension in your face… relax your forehead and focus that pressure down… good…"

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Half an hour later, she fell forward into Erik's arms with a gush of air and a frustrated sob. "It's not _moving_!" she cried.

"On the contrary," said Nadir as he pulled several metal instruments from his black bag, "You have made tremendous progress. I have seen it take three hours for the amount of movement you've managed in thirty minutes. Another few pushes, and the child may come."

Exhausted beyond endurance, Christine shook her head. "I don't think… I can make it… for another few pushes."

"Labor does nothing if not convince us that our bodies are capable of enduring the most excruciating torture imaginable, and coming out alive," said Madame Giry, as her careworn fingers gently stroked Christine's damp curls. "It is women's curse, my dear. And the reason I stopped at Meg," she added with a wink.

Christine smiled weakly, and turned her gaze to Erik. "Yes… I hope you weren't… expecting… any more children… any time soon. I think this… might be it… for a while."

"That's perfectly fine by me," he assured her with a gentle kiss to her temple. "I can't say I enjoy being a spectator to your suffering, _mon ange_."

"You'd best turn away then," she gasped as the next contraction swelled quickly to a blistering crescendo, and she bore down with as much force as her exhausted muscles could manage. A cry of pain ripped out of her dry throat as the resulting movement sent a white-hot, searing sting through her womanhood.

"Wait a moment!" Nadir instructed firmly. "Don't push any more during this contraction, Christine, or you will risk tearing the flesh. Allow your body to do the work, and to expand around the child's head and shoulders. Just take deep breaths, and wait it out…"

She did partially as she was told, and refrained from pushing – but instead of taking deep breaths, she sucked it in and held it instinctively against the burning sensation. By now she was shaking uncontrollably; every muscle in her body had been worked beyond the point of exhaustion, and she wanted to laugh now at the thought that she had ever considered one of Madame Giry's rigid four-hour drills to be a grueling workout. She honestly didn't know where her strength was coming from any more – every time she thought her trembling muscles had nothing left to give, she would be continually astounded by the power of her own body.

"Breathe, Christine," Giry instructed firmly after several seconds, and Christine let the air out in a gush. The contraction was tapering slowly, and with it the burning sensation; there was great pressure still, but it stung significantly less.

A quick check from Nadir resulted in a nod. "Good, looking much better now. Another strong push and we might very well have the head."

Christine barely had the strength to grip her fiancés hand, but she longed for the security of his arms around her. She turned tearful brown eyes up to his face, and he seemed to sense immediately what she needed, for he climbed into bed behind her, and molded his body to fit snugly against hers.

"Almost there, _mon ange_," he whispered into her ear.

She reached for his hand, and he held it tight. Sucking in a deep breath and bracing herself against him, she pushed…

"My goodness, look at all that hair!" Madame Giry cried in delight a few seconds later. Christine's eyes shot open, and she released her breath. Giry had left her side to assist Nadir, and was dousing one of the towels in water.

"You … can see … the baby?" she panted between gulps for air. They had been coaching and reassuring her for so long, with so little result, that she was honestly startled that the end was finally in sight.

_When you were born, Little Lotte, you were barely the size of my hand, _her father used to tell her, in one of her favorite bedtime stories. _But you were born with a full head of those beautiful curls!_

It was such a little thing, to know that the baby had a full head of hair, as she'd had when she was born – but it instilled in her, for the first time, the sense that this was an actual child – _her _child. A tangible, living being that she had created. Just that simple thought seemed to give her a much-needed burst of adrenaline.

Taking immediate advantage of the newfound energy, Christine bore down on that warm weight with everything she had. Meanwhile, Erik's fingers were pressing into her shoulders with almost bruising force, as if he hoped he could transfer some of his own strength into her through the pads of his fingertips. Doubled over, Christine let out a single, long cry as she pushed…

All at once, the pressure was suddenly gone, and she felt something warm and wet slip out of her as she fell limply back against Erik. Her vision spun, and she saw dots of colors as she choked hungrily for air. Vaguely she was aware of hurried movement at the foot of the bed, but she was tired… so tired…

A piercing cry broke through the fog that surrounded her, and blearily she opened her eyes. Madame Giry was busy rubbing the tiny red body with warm towels, while Nadir had clamped the umbilical cord, and severed it with one clean snip. Christine wanted so badly to lift her head to see the child's face, but her weary muscles refused to comply. Erik, for his part, was perfectly still, his face buried in the crook of her neck.

"Is it…?" she whispered, her eyes darting from the Persian to the ballet mistress.

Madame Giry's face split in a grin as she wrapped the squirming baby in one of the towels, and carried it toward her. "A girl," she answered, and gently lowered the bundle to Christine's chest.

A single, warm tear slipped down Christine's cheek as she took the baby into her trembling arms, and looked into her daughter's face for the first time.

She was perfect.

Her baby was flushed a vibrant pink, and had the softest, smoothest skin Christine had ever touched. Her head was completely covered in downy brown hair that curled at the ends, and matched Christine's in color. She had the most exquisite, delicate little features – Erik's chin, and Christine's nose – high cheekbones, and round, rosy cheeks.

The infant's cries slowly dwindled to whimpers and then gurgles as Christine began to sway in a primitive instinct she'd never known she possessed. Slowly, her long eyelashes fluttered, and she opened her eyes. Christine could not have named their color if she tried; they were like the sea at dusk, reflecting the deep blue of the sky, the gray-green of the water, and the rich brown of the wet sand.

She had the strangest sensation, as she and the baby stared into one another's eyes for the first time – in her mind, she knew she was looking at a perfect stranger, but something deep in her soul knew this child, claimed her, and loved her with a fiery swell so strong she thought it might explode out of her. In a moment of perfect clarity, she suddenly understood: _Mother. I am her mother._

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**A/N: -collapses in exhaustion alongside Chrissy- PHEW.**

**Well, Christine and Erik **_**finally**_** have their baby girl!**

**The thinking behind her lack of deformity is that Erik's was due to some prenatal issue, not anything genetic. Presumably, none of the rest of his family had a deformity of any kind (Madeleine certainly seemed shocked that he did), so I didn't see any reason for it to be passed on to his daughter.**

**Thoughts? :)**


	67. Enough

**A/N: Okay, someone pinch me. This is the first time in… I can't even remember how long… that this story has been updated twice in a week. Unlike the last chapter, this one itched to be written. I don't currently have a beta for it, so please excuse any overlooked errors on my part. **

**A note: That isn't a typo in the first sentence. I spared everyone the details of a long, mushy, non-E/C chapter, and will just let you all know that Emily and Raoul were married earlier in the day on which this chapter takes place. ;)**

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Emily watched from the nursery door as her new husband settled into the rocking chair, murmuring quietly to their baby. Her eyes sparkled with love at the sight of the two most important men in her life, and she marveled – not for the first time – at how very fortunate she was to have made it to this point. A year ago, she had been writhing uncomfortably under whichever drunken brute could afford her; as of tonight, she was the Comtesse de Chagny, and she would rightfully consummate the marriage by making love to the most handsome, kind, forgiving man she had ever met. Tonight, she considered herself, in no uncertain terms, to be the luckiest woman who ever walked the earth.

_Don't you dare play the blissful innocence game, _a voice snarled in her head, effectively ruining the moment. _You know damned well the price you paid to get here._ Visions of the death and destruction she'd left in her wake suddenly drowned out the beautiful scene before her… her bloodstained hands hovering over Charlie's gushing throat, her brother-in-law swaying by the neck from his own balcony…

Squeezing her eyes shut against those ghastly images, she snapped back at her conscience, _Listen, I know I'll burn in Hell for this stolen happiness eventually. But in the meantime, I'm going to soak it up for everything it's worth. _She reopened her dark eyes as her husband began to sing a quiet lullaby. Cedric stared up at his father through sleepy, half-closed eyes, and made contented gurgling noises, as if trying to sing along. Her heart warmed, and she pressed a hand to it, feeling it beat steadily beneath her palm. _And this is worth everything. I sold my soul for moments like this, and I would do it again, if I had to._

Her conscience quieted, but left her with the shadows of those grisly death scenes hovering at the edge of her soul. If she breathed too deeply, she swore she could still smell the blood.

Distraction, as always, proved to be the best remedy; adopting a seductive smile, she slowly sidled up behind her husband, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"I think 'e's asleep," she whispered into Raoul's ear.

"Mm," he hummed, slowly rising to his feet so as not to disturb the baby. She watched his masculine form appreciatively in the dim candlelight as he crossed the room, and tenderly laid little Cedric in the crib. If she thought she had been in love with him before Cedric had come along, the feeling had only intensified tenfold since he had stepped into his role as a father. She loved nothing more than listening to him coo sweet nonsense at their son, or watching him place soft, impossibly gentle kisses to the baby's fingers or forehead.

_Well, _she amended slyly as she crossed the room to join him, _perhaps there is _one_ thing I enjoy more…_

"_Maman_ is ready for bed, too, I think," she murmured as she slid one hand up Raoul's spine, allowing it to come to rest on his strong shoulder. Slowly, she replaced her hand with her lips, and managed to convince herself that Raoul's muscles stiffened out of desire, not revulsion.

"Emily…" he began, and then trailed off, as if he weren't sure what to say.

"Shh," she finished for him, gently spinning him around to face her. She kissed him lightly, then whispered against his lips, "My room… in five minutes." And, after stealing one last, lingering kiss, she pulled away, winked, and strode off toward her chambers. She felt the heat of his gaze on her back as she walked away, and smiled to herself – she might be a properly wedded wife now, but she still had a few tricks up her sleeve. And Raoul might be an illustrious count, but he was also a man… and if there was one thing that could be said for Emily, it was that she knew exactly how to please a man.

Once she was out of eyeshot, she burst into a run, her eyes dancing with anticipation. She had her gown halfway off by the time she got to her bedroom, and she let it fall to the floor in a heap as soon as the door was securely shut behind her. She fumbled through her wardrobe with only the moonlight to guide her, and found what she was looking for by touch: a stunning, embroidered white corset, and a matching sheer robe with bows at the elbows. It had been Christine's, she presumed, although she couldn't imagine that obnoxiously wholesome little girl wearing anything this sensual. It probably had never even been worn, and so Emily considered it her wifely duty to break the exquisite lingerie in.

With the corset donned, her hair tousled, and a spritz of perfume at her throat, she was ready. For a few moments she debated vigorously with herself whether it would be more seductive to wait in bed or to let him carry her there himself, and eventually decided that standing seemed less desperate. All of a sudden, she realized that her heart was pounding, and a trickle of sweat snaked down her back…

"What is _wrong_ with me?" she muttered out loud, raking her hands back through her hair with a nervous laugh. God knew she'd bedded enough men that she should be completely jaded to this by now. And it wasn't even as if this were her first time with Raoul – little Cedric was a testament to that!

_But this is different, _she realized. _This is my wedding night. _

She'd dreamed of this night ever since she'd first entertained the thought of marriage, years and years ago – back when her parents were alive… back before her prospects had been completely shattered and tossed to the wind, along with all the other fanciful dreams she'd entertained as a girl. Now, with Raoul, she actually had the chance to live out those dreams, and even more – certainly as a youth, she could never have imagined that she would become a countess, living in one of the most beautiful estates in Paris!

After all that she'd been through – all that _Raoul _had been through, for that matter – she knew how important this night would be. It was a fresh start, the chance to begin again, and start out their life together on a good note. This evening had to be perfect, and she felt the wringing pressure in her gut, the niggling voice in her ear: _don't mess this up… for God's sake don't mess this up…_

Emily stopped breathing altogether when Raoul's footsteps approached her closed door. He paused for a few seconds, and she wondered, briefly, if he were as nervous as she was…

A quiet knock, and she reminded herself that she had to draw in a breath in order to answer.

"Come in." Her voice cracked, and she silently cursed herself. So much for seduction; she sounded like a frightened ten-year-old!

Her husband shuffled unsteadily into the room, and she realized that his eyes were still unadjusted to the darkness. "Emily?"

Quickly deciding that she could use his temporary blindness to her advantage, she crossed the room in three strides, and took his warm hands. "I'm 'ere," she whispered, bringing his hands back to rest on her back before tangling her own in his hair. "I'm right 'ere, love."

She felt his hesitation as she pulled his head down and slid her lips against his.

"Should— shouldn't we – light the fireplace?" he muttered between kisses.

Emily smiled with more confidence than she felt. "We don't need to be able to see, tonight," she whispered, pressing heated kisses to his throat. "Only to touch…" And here she ran her finger down his chest tauntingly, hovering just at his waistline, "And feel."

He sucked in a quick gasp, and Emily thrilled with triumph. A rocky start, perhaps, but she was recovering quickly…

"Kiss me," she begged hoarsely, and her heart began to pound as he complied. She grinned against his mouth, and his tongue eased forward to part her lips. It was enough to send them both into a spiraling frenzy; she began to claw at his shirt, desperate to feel his warm skin beneath her hands and mouth. In one swift movement he lifted her from the ground, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, using her new position above him to kiss him harder, deeper.

In a red haze of animalistic passion, they tumbled to the bed, ripping the clothing from one another unceremoniously until there was nothing left between them but tangled bedsheets. If there had been any trace of hesitance in her husband before, it had been clawed away with his clothing. He crushed her to him with bruising force, and kissed her until she was gasping for breath. Emily could tell immediately that tonight would be nothing like the first time they had made love, when Raoul had still been sick and confined to his bed, and she had comforted him over the loss of his brother.

_Philippe._ The swaying corpse's eyes burned at her from the shadows, and she squeezed her own eyes shut against them.

"Raoul," she whimpered, desperate for another distraction. "Raoul, I need you…"

He entered her in one swift movement, and she arched instinctively, throwing her head back with pleasure. Her nails dug into the soft flesh of his shoulders as he moved inside of her, making her heart pound and her skin flush.

"Raoul," she cried again, as waves of pleasure began to lap at her.

He moaned in turn, and pressed a heated kiss to her neck.

"Christine," he moaned into her ear.

She froze, and even her heart stilled in her chest for a single, aching moment. Blinking twice, she tried to clear her head – she'd been hearing things. Certainly he hadn't just…

But the horrified, embarrassed expression on Raoul's face as he pulled back and looked at her was enough to confirm that yes, he _had_ "just."

"Emily," he corrected lamely, his eyes wide and his lips pinched together. "Emily…"

She shoved him away with surprising strength, allowing her hair to fall in her face so he wouldn't see her tears. Her fingers found the sheets and pulled them up around herself as she climbed out of bed. Raoul was right at her heels, trying to press kisses to her bare shoulder.

"Em… Emily, stop, please… I'm sorry, I am so incredibly sorry. It slipped out, it meant nothing…"

She wheeled on him suddenly, her jaw cramping as she held back sobs. "Lie to me again, Raoul," she hissed, her eyes burning into his. "Look me in the eye and tell me again that it meant nothin'."

Her husband faltered just for a moment, and it was enough. Allowing her tears to fall, she shook her head in disgust and turned away. She picked up her dress from where she had discarded it on the floor, and began to slip it on as he begged with her in hushed tones.

"Very well, perhaps it meant _something_, but… Emily, please, you know it was not my intention to hurt you. I… I was just lost in you, and it evoked old memories, and… it's… it's a compliment, really…"

"A _compliment_?!" she shrieked, whipping around to face him with a burst of half-crazed, incredulous laughter. "A compliment, Raoul? Really?"

"No!" He was backpedaling furiously. "That's not what I – you're taking it the wrong way…"

She continued to laugh even as mascara-bled tears dripped down her face. "Of course, I know exactly what you meant! Christine is… is the patron saint of woman'ood, a livin' breathin' angel sent to this world to make every last one of us look like 'omely wretches…"

"Emily—"

Her dress finally secured, she crossed her arms over her chest and simply stared at him, shaking her head. "You'll never be rid of 'er, will you?" It was somewhere between an accusation and a desperate plea for him to contradict her. "Every night you take me to your bed, you'll see 'er face. When you fall asleep, you'll dream of 'er… As long as she lives, you'll pine for 'er. Won't you?" She grabbed his handsome face between her hands and forced him to look into her pleading eyes. "_Won't you_?"

There was defeat in his ocean blue eyes, where she had so desperately wished to find a glimmer of hope.

She closed her eyes on tears, and nodded. "I thought so," she whispered.

"Emily," he tried again, but there was no longer any drive behind it. He was a gentleman, of course. He was trying to make this less painful on her, but the only thing he was doing was driving the dagger in deeper.

"Just go," she breathed, turning away from him to face the window.

He hovered at her side for several moments, opening and closing his mouth as if trying to find the right words to remedy an incurable situation. Eventually, it seemed that he admitted defeat, for he hung his head and began to collect his clothes from around the room. Emily refused to look at him as he dressed himself and slowly, hesitantly, left the room.

Her tears dried on her cheeks as she stared out at the moonlit estate. As quickly as her rage, her horror, her sense of excruciating loss had come, they were gone. She was simply… empty. Soulless.

Pensive.

She waited until the house was quiet before taking a shawl from her wardrobe and venturing out into the night.

* * *

**A/N: Well then. Suffice to say, I think that was the straw that broke the camel's back.**

**This can't be good…**

**-devil horns-**


	68. Father

**A/N: Finally, a glimpse into Erik's head!**

**And BOOYAH, this makes 3 chapters in a row that were updated in a timely manner, people. Are you unconscious from shock yet? (Haha Barb…)**

* * *

Christine hemmed and hawed for hours over the two female names she had selected the previous afternoon. She stared at the baby's sleeping face as if expecting some sort of brilliant revelation, first trying one name aloud, then the other.

"Jacqueline Emmanuelle Guerrier … Nicole Lorraine Guerrier … Jacqueline Guerrier … Nicole Guerrier… Jacqueline … Nicole …"

After several of these useless cycles, Erik let out a sharp sigh. "_That which we call a rose, by any other name_…" he quoted halfheartedly. "Can't you just… flip a coin?"

His fiancée fixed him with a harrowing glare. "Her name will be the very first gift we give her, Erik! It has to be meaningful. It has to _fit_ her."

He waved an elegant hand dismissively. "Well, which suits the child better, then? Surely you must have a preference."

Christine bit her lip. "That's just it. Neither one seems to suit her at all."

It was all Erik could do to suppress another exasperated sigh. "Well, perhaps you should select a _different_ name, then, rather than mindlessly repeating the same two inadequate ones!"

He regretted it before the words were even out of his mouth. Christine was exhausted and overwhelmed, and it seemed, for his part, he could do nothing but add insult to injury. But everything was moving so fast, changing so rapidly, that he couldn't… he didn't…

He didn't know what to think.

The emotional climax to the past nine months had come so abruptly that he hadn't had time to process anything just yet. It was as if he were watching these life-altering events from behind a glass wall. He had watched as the love of his life, whom he had diligently protected from childhood, doubled over screaming in excruciating, unprecedented agony that he could do absolutely nothing to abate. Never in his life had he felt more… useless. At some point during the process, he had simply retreated into himself, incapable of coping with the crushing helplessness. His body had gone through all the right motions– held her hand, kissed her cheek, murmured generic encouragements into her ear – without him mentally registering what he was doing. He answered when spoken to, but could not, for the life of him, remember a word he'd said all night.

When the infant was placed in Christine's arms, he could do nothing but stare blankly at the tiny red thing. His first coherent thought, throughout the entire process, was that it did not appear to be deformed. Swollen, yes, but perhaps that was normal, considering its method of … expulsion from Christine's body. It had two eyes, a nose, a hungry mouth. It cried, and flailed its small fists in agitation.

He had never really seen a baby before, he supposed. He'd spent the greater portion of his life in the bowels of an opera house; the youngest residents were the ballet rats, and the littlest of those were already six or seven years old. Of course, he'd seen many a patron in attendance heavy with child, but once the babe was born, the mother certainly never brought it with her to the opera until it was of a sound mind to sit quietly and mind its manners.

And so, in his ignorance, he'd simply watched with glazed eyes as Christine had cried tears of joy, showering the little red thing in kisses; as Madame Giry, stern woman though she was, had dabbed her own eyes and fawned over both mother and baby; as Nadir had clapped him on the back, pressed a fatherly kiss to Christine's sweaty forehead, and praised Allah for a successful delivery.

Giry and the daroga had left some time ago, their duty as friends complete, to "allow the new family to rest and bond."

Erik had simply blinked, while Christine poured out heartfelt thanks on behalf of both of them. Vaguely, he wondered how exactly he was expected to "bond" with this tiny creature that had no means of communication besides an infernal, high-pitched wail of general discomfort. Fortunately, the little thing had ceased its shrieking after Christine had taken it to her breast. It was asleep now, silent and still in his fiancée's arms, completely oblivious and indifferent towards the plight of its naming, which – _evidently_ – was a much bigger dilemma than Erik had initially thought.

He was developing a rather nasty headache, in light of the whole thing.

He needed space, and quiet, and… time to process. Change was among Erik's least favorite things in the world, and to be exposed to so much of it in such a short span was trying his temper, to say the least. Unfortunately, Christine seemed to want him close for the time being, and his fuse was rapidly growing short.

An inspired thought finally occurred to him after a few moments of grumpy silence, and his eyes glowed as they turned upon his fiancée. "What I meant to say," he amended silkily, "Was that perhaps it would be best to ponder a greater list of possibilities beyond those names we considered yesterday. Perhaps you would like me to draw you a bath? I know it is your favorite place to think."

Immediately, some of the hurt ebbed from Christine's eyes. "That's very thoughtful of you, Erik. A bath would be lovely."

A fleeting smirk of triumph touched his lips as he swept out into the main room. As soon as he was out of eyesight, he threw his head back and raked his hands back through his hair with a long, drawn out sigh. Never in his life had he been more grateful for a moment of quiet solitude.

He set about the task of drawing and heating the bath water much more slowly than he would have normally done, savoring the peaceful, lapping sounds of the lake. Somewhere in the dark labyrinth there was a gentle, steady drip of water, and subconsciously he began to compose to its rhythm. The urge to play his organ suddenly gripped him with an almost painful ferocity, and he looked over at the golden pipes with palpable longing. He knew that he could sort out everything, make sense of his own jumbled mind, if only he could play…

Resentment, black as midnight, bubbled in his chest as he forced his eyes away from the magnificent instrument. No… there would be no music in the foreseeable future. If the child slept, it was silent; when it woke, it would inevitably start screaming. He knew he would never be able to work with that hellish noise raging in the background, and if he tried to play while the child slept, he would wake it. It was a vicious cycle, and he couldn't win.

He clanged the heavy metal pot onto the stove with perhaps a bit more force than necessary.

Where was that goddamned daroga when he needed him?! Although Erik would deny it to his grave, the Persian seemed to be the only one capable of picking through his impossibly twisted brain and making sense out of the thoughts he found there. _And, naturally, Nadir would choose the most inconvenient moment to take his leave_, he mused darkly. The daroga had trotted merrily on his way, congratulating himself on a job well done, and more than likely adjourned to a certain ballet mistress's bed as his celebration site of choice. Both of them had promised to return the following day to check in on the new family, but that did very little to help Erik now.

_Well, _the rational side of his brain piped up slowly, _What would the pesky daroga say if he were here? Surely you know him well enough to take an educated guess._

Erik thought about that for a moment, then snorted in disdain. He could almost hear the Persian's obnoxiously calm, logical voice now:

"You're doing it again, Erik. Time and time again, you do this, and never manage to learn your lesson. When faced with any emotional dilemma you don't care to handle, you simply detach yourself from the situation. You did it with Christine, and look how well that turned out for you! Only when you allowed her to break through your innermost defenses did she return to you for good. And still, here you are, presented with the next emotional vulnerability, and rather than tackling it head-on, you throw up your walls and retreat within yourself! Be a man, Erik! This child is your responsibility. You cannot continue to use your fear of failure as an excuse to shut down."

Erik was unsure whether to be impressed or annoyed by his mind's uncanny ability to conjure up such a disgustingly accurate likeness of the daroga. Still, the imagined diatribe was enough to get the wheels in his head turning.

Madame Giry, in her commanding, maternal way, had managed to light a fire in him just prior to the child's birth. Fleeting and short-lived as it was, it had indeed existed – for a moment, he had felt empowered, and… hopeful. She had cast a rosy light on a situation that he had always thought to be utterly doomed. As he carefully considered his feelings on the matter now, he found that the light had not been entirely snuffed out. The child was unscarred – that, in itself, gave it an immediate advantage over the life of inevitable despair he had imagined. Additionally, the infant's gender was a tremendous relief; in all of his tormented visions of the future, he had pictured the child to be a male, who would eventually look to model himself after his father. A girl, on the other hand, would naturally grow in Christine's image, which took a great deal of pressure off of him.

Most importantly, Christine had survived the birthing process, and – miraculously, considering her state of pure torture a few hours ago – was faring perfectly well now. She seemed to find something astounding and beautiful in the little red thing she'd suffered so terribly to bring into the world, and Erik wondered with a twinge of fear if he would find the same miracle when he finally looked into its face with the intention of _seeing_ rather than merely looking. He had the sinking feeling that parental affection would not blossom in him so easily as it had come to his beloved – what if he was just not cut out to be a father in the first place?

This time, he could clearly see the scornful gazes of _both_ of his friends in his mind's eye.

With a heavy sigh, he pulled the kettle of boiling water off of the stove and dumped its contents into the bathtub. He returned to the main room and refilled the kettle with cold water from the filtered pool, emptied that into the tub as well, and peppered the steaming bath with rose petals before braving the Louis-Philippe room again.

Christine was asleep, but thinly; her eyelashes fluttered open the moment he stepped through the curtain, and she graced him with a warm smile.

"Bath time?" she murmured.

"Prepared just the way you like it."

Her smile broadened, and she slowly sat up in bed so as not to wake the child in her arms. A thought suddenly seemed to occur to her, and her gaze darted between Erik and the baby.

"You'll have to hold her for me while I bathe."

The blood drained out of his face, and his eyes widened. Instinctively, he took a step back. This had not been a part of the plan.

Christine laughed at him. "Erik, she won't bite. Come, I'll show you what to do."

"Can't you just … set it down on the bed?" he suggested, taking another step back.

Another giggle. "Erik, don't be ridiculous. Come here."

"I'd rather not."

The humor was gone from her face as quickly as it had come. Her eyes narrowed, and she set her chin in that familiar way that meant that she was going to be stubborn about this. "Erik, you're going to have to hold her eventually. She's your daughter. A brief round of practice while I take a bath will certainly not kill you. Now _come here_."

As he inched hesitantly toward the bed, he wondered where on earth his meek, obedient little protégé had gone. Two years ago, he would never have had to deal with this… this… _persistence_ on her part. A menacing glare would have immediately tamed the child into submission. Perhaps that was the problem. A child no longer cowered before him; in her place was a headstrong woman, baptized to adulthood by fire and blood. She no longer feared him in the slightest – on the contrary, it appeared that she was currently in the business of intimidating _him _into obedience.

To his surprise, he found himself less annoyed by this fact and more… awed by it. Somehow, impossibly, it made him love her all the more.

But it didn't make him any less disinclined to take the fragile infant into his arms.

"What if…" He paused, inches from the bed, and shook his head. "What if I hurt it?"

"_Her_," Christine corrected, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and scooting closer to him. "And I suppose you'll just have to be very gentle. Here, sit down if it makes you feel more secure."

He scowled at her. "Nothing is going to make me feel_ secure _about this."

Sighing delicately, she patted the mattress beside her, and with great reluctance, he sat.

"Now," his beloved instructed in a voice that reminded him starkly of Antoinette Giry when speaking to her ballet rats, "The muscles in her neck have not yet developed fully, so she has very little control over her head. You'll rest the base of her skull in the crook of your arm, to hold it steady."

"Where, pray tell, did you learn all of this?" he asked, stalling desperately for time.

She arched an eyebrow. "The doctor had me confined to my bed at the de Chagny estate for three months. I had _ample_ time to pore over infant reading material."

"Ah."

"Now, as I was saying, you'll support her head with…"

"Reading material, you say? Do tell me about it. Pamphlets? Books? Scholastic articles? What sort of reading?"

"Erik," she said firmly, catching onto his game far more quickly than he had anticipated. "My bath is getting cold. We don't want all your work to go to waste, now, do we? Come, show me your supportive arm position."

The beginnings of a sneer twitched at his lip as he obligingly held his elbow up for her inspection.

"Very good. Now, with your other hand, you'll support her bottom from underneath, like so. Show me."

Feeling very much as if he were a naughty schoolboy being chastised by his teacher, he rolled his eyes and held his other hand palm up. Before he could bite out any sort of scathing remark, Christine leaned forward and placed the baby in his outstretched arms. Erik blanched, his eyes flying wide, as the warm weight settled against him.

"See? Now that wasn't so very hard, was it?" she fluted happily.

He didn't answer her; every fiber of his being, every nerve in his body, was attuned to the tiny body nestled in his awkward embrace. With a maddeningly triumphant grin, Christine kissed his cheek, and left the room without another word.

Erik didn't realize he was holding his breath until his eyes watered and his oxygen-starved lungs began to physically burn. Even still, he released it slowly, afraid that even the slightest movement would startle the child out of slumber.

It – _she _– didn't seem at all bothered, though; as he began to breathe again, she only seemed to relax deeper into slumber. Disgruntled as he was by the situation, it _did _allow him the opportunity to finally examine the child with a critical eye.

The very first observation he made was that the child's tiny open mouth slanted sideways as she slept, just like Christine. She also had one fist curled up to her chest, and the other tucked at her side, in Christine's favored sleeping position. And she had the same, delicate dimples where her jaw met her chin. For that matter, she seemed to have Christine's mouth… and nose… and ears… and hair… and bone structure…

Erik was astounded, as he more closely inspected the child, to find that she appeared to be a very small, exquisitely detailed model of the woman he loved. It was one thing to recognize, in theory, that a child would inherit traits from its parents; it was quite another to hold the physical proof in his hands.

A splash broke the perfect silence that hung over the lair, starling him roughly out of his thorough examination. His grip on the child tightened instinctively as his heart began to hammer, and his eyes flickered up to the curtain.

_The bath_, he remembered suddenly, feeling like a complete fool. _Christine is taking a bath._

The error had been made, though, and the child twitched out of sleep at the sudden shift, her eyes blinking open.

Erik's stomach twisted itself into knots as he sucked in a breath and held it, bracing himself for the onslaught of cries. He winced, and waited…

When nothing happened, he opened one eye, and then the next, to find that the child was awake, and reciprocating his examination with very serious eyes of an indeterminable color.

"H…hello," he breathed around an impossibly dry throat, prompted by an absurd desire to say something to this studious little creature. Her tiny mouth worked silently as she suckled the air, and then her fist, without ever taking her eyes off of him. "Hello, child. I am Erik. I…" He swallowed hard. "I am your father."

At any other point in his life, he would have felt absolutely ridiculous for speaking to a creature with no ability to understand him, let alone respond in turn; his former self would have argued that he might as well carry on a conversation with a rock. But there was something unnerving about the child's eyes… a quiet sentience that he supposed to be most extraordinary in one so young. It was as if she were memorizing everything she saw, pondering, processing, and _learning_.

That was a trait that he understood completely. Erik had possessed an insatiable thirst for knowledge for as long as he could remember. The thought occurred to him, suddenly, that perhaps, in that, this tiny Christine replica had inherited something from him as well.

It was not an entirely unpleasant thought.

The child continued to stare up at him with those stunning, intelligent eyes, and he began to prattle nervously to fill the silence. "I imagine this must be quite a cumbersome adjustment from your previous living environment. But might I say, you seem to be handling it extraordinarily well, given the circumstances."

The beginnings of a whimper hummed in the baby's chest when he fell silent, and Erik's eyes widened fearfully. "No, please don't fuss, child. Perhaps, ah… perhaps… you would like me to sing to you?"

Before a single cry could part her lips, he enveloped the child in the swell of music, his voice rising and falling in gentle waves that seemed to shimmer in the very air around them. Almost immediately, she seemed to relax, her breaths steadying and the tension draining out of her tiny features. By the end of the second verse her heavy eyelids began to droop, and by the end of the third she was soundly asleep, her little mouth having fallen open into her mother's endearing slant.

Erik could not deny the pinprick of pride that struck him as he watched the little one sleep in his arms, knowing that _he_ had pacified her into this tranquil state. It was a tremendous relief to know that his longstanding method of soothing Christine also served to calm their daughter; a simple, floating lullaby, and all the world's cares seemed to drift out of their minds.

Perhaps he could grow accustomed to this _father _concept after all.

* * *

Christine had never felt more grateful for a bath in her life. Childbirth had left her feeling absolutely revolting, and on top of cleansing away the sweat and blood, the hot water also helped to relax her weary, knotted muscles. She would have contentedly fallen asleep in the bathtub had her conscience not gotten the better of her; although she was proud of herself for convincing Erik to finally hold the baby (well, not _convincing _so much as dropping their daughter in his arms), she knew that beneath his petulant scowl, he was absolutely terrified. She had left him in the Louis Philippe room looking as though he had been dealt a solid kick to the stomach; he'd cradled the sleeping child stiffly and awkwardly, with a stunned expression on the visible half of his face. Fortunately, Christine hadn't heard the baby cry at all throughout her bath, so at least Erik seemed to have managed not to wake her.

Reluctantly, she cut the bath short and climbed out of the tempting water in favor of rescuing her poor baffled fiancé. Wrapped in nothing but a towel, she hurried quickly through the main room towards the sanctuary of the nice warm Louis-Philippe room. She steeled herself mentally just before pushing through the curtain, expecting to meet the glare of a very unhappy Erik.

But_ nothing _could have prepared her for the sight that met her on the other side of the curtain.

Erik was sprawled flat out across the bed, his entire form rumbling with gentle snores. His head had fallen to the side, and the mask had slipped halfway off. He wore an expression of such peace that delighted tears sprung to Christine's eyes. Never had she seen him look so comfortable in his own skin.

And sleeping on his chest, perfectly content in her own slumber, was their beautiful daughter.

Christine beamed through her tears, and tucked the image away into the deepest, warmest place in her heart.

_So this is our future, _she mused. And suddenly, she believed for the first time in those dreams that she and Erik had both promised one another, while each secretly understanding that they could never become reality. This moment – this blissful, unprecedented moment of peace – changed everything in Christine's mind; she knew now that whatever demons had plagued them before could be slain for their daughter's sake. In a moment of perfect clarity, she understood... they could be happy. They could be a family.

"Claire," she breathed, and even that gentle sound woke her slumbering beloved.

"Mm?" he grunted sleepily.

"Her name," Christine laughed softly as tears streamed down her cheeks. "I thought of the perfect name." She strode forward and smoothed the baby's soft brown curls. "Claire."

Erik considered her silently for a time, and then nodded slowly. "Claire. It suits her."

Unable to stop smiling, Christine climbed into bed, towel and all, and fitted herself comfortably into his embrace. "Erik, I want to go to Perros-Guirec. This weekend. I want to be married in the same church as my parents, and I want Claire to be baptized in the same fount that I was. We've spent so long waiting to put our lives together, but it's right, now… I feel that it's right. Please, Erik, let's not wait any longer. Can't we go this weekend? Please?"

Her fiancé's expression ranged from surprise to amusement to deep thought as he mulled over her plea. Eventually, he smiled and pulled her down to kiss him with his free hand.

"It will take a great deal of finagling to have those repairs to the house completed by Sunday," he admitted. Then, after a pause, "But don't worry, _mon ange_. I will move mountains if only to see you smile. I'm sure Monsieur O'Reilly and I can come to some sort of… mutual agreement."

Christine was wise enough not to ask precisely what kind of _mutual agreement _Erik intended to enforce upon the unfortunate Irishman. Instead, she offered him a dazzling smile and a long, deep kiss. "And we can be married this weekend?" she reiterated breathlessly. "And have the baby baptized?"

He brushed a finger gently down her cheek. "If you wish it, _mon ange_, I promise it will be done."

She grinned, and buried her face in the crook of his neck. "Just think of it, Erik… an intimate wedding in the little chapel by the sea. We must have Nadir and Madame Giry attend, of course!" She chewed her lip thoughtfully. "I certainly hope they can make the arrangements, on such short notice…"

"I will take care of it," Erik assured her quietly.

"They can always stay with us, if need be," Christine continued to muse aloud. "The house has a beautiful guest room, and I'm sure we could set up a makeshift bed for Nadir in the parlor."

"Perhaps."

She thought quietly to herself for a few moments before asking sleepily, "Erik, what day is it today?"

"Thursday evening."

Her eyes flew wide, and she sat upright in bed. "Thursday evening?! Erik, there's no possible way the repairs could be completed so quickly!"

He paused, and shrugged a shoulder. "I didn't say it would be easy. But if O'Reilly's men begin the reparations first thing in the morning and work steadily through sunset, it is plausible for them to finish in two days' time."

Christine's eyes darted to the clock. "But it's past seven already! Surely Monsieur O'Reilly has retired from work at this hour."

A smirk slowly crawled up Erik's face. "Assuredly he has. Then again, I think a late-evening house call will prove much more effective in securing his cooperation than yet another trip to the office."

Christine sighed wearily. "Just don't hurt him, Erik."

Adopting an offended look, Erik sat up and gently transferred the sleeping baby to Christine's arms. "Hurt him? Whatever for? I have no need to resort to any… _physical _means of persuasion when it comes to that Irish swine. It's too great an effort on my part, when I could simply flash him a few thousand francs and watch his eyes glitter with greed."

She simply shook her head, too tired to argue about her fiance's moral compass. "Well, you'd best be going then."

Erik hesitated, eyeing her with blatant concern. "Perhaps our consultation can wait until tomorrow, when Madame Giry is here with you."

"If you wait until tomorrow, there's no chance those repairs will be finished in time!" Christine insisted. "Besides, you've gone on errands hundreds of times without me. What's the fuss now?"

"You've just given _birth_, Christine. You need to be monitored—"

"Erik, don't be ridiculous. I'm fine!" she sighed in exasperation. "I was just going to sleep anyway. It would be an utter waste of time to sit watching me when you could be dealing with much more productive matters."

"Christine…"

"You promised me," she accused with a perfectly disarming pout.

Erik seemed to have no retort for that; he opened and closed his mouth twice, glaring down at her as a war of wills raged behind his green eyes. At last, he sighed in defeat, and leaned down to kiss her.

"I will be back within the hour, then," he muttered. "Stay in bed, and get some rest. That is my compromise."

"I promise, I'll stay right here," she agreed with a triumphant smile. Tangling her hand in his hair, she pulled his face down again and kissed his smooth cheek. "I love you."

"I love you too," he grumbled.

With a swish of the curtain, he was gone.

Christine leaned back into her pillows with a contented sigh, and pressed a kiss to her baby's forehead. Snuggled up beneath the blankets with the warm weight of her daughter on her chest, she succumbed to sleep quickly, and dreamed of a curly haired toddler squealing in delight as her masked father chased her through the waves.

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**A/N: Whew, that was a long one. I briefly considered breaking this up into two chapters – the first from Erik, the second from Christine, but decided mreh, what the heck, you guys deserved a nice long update.**

**Thank you so much to those of you who continue to diligently review after all this time – those kind words (and occasional death threats, lol) keep me going!**

**On the subject of feedback, I am currently in the market for a beta for the end of this story. I am always so insecure when I post an unedited chapter – I'm only human, and I certainly make mistakes that an unbiased eye would catch. That said, if any of you are interested in betaing for these last few chapters, please PM me and let me know. :) **


	69. Streetsmarts

**A/N: This chapter is definitely one that earns its rating – for sexual situations, violence, and language (she's a real doozy, that Emily).**

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Emily stole quietly through the city streets, her footsteps hushed by a blanket of fresh snow. The glittering flakes danced in the streetlights and caught in her eyelashes like frozen tears. She looked straight ahead and walked with purpose, even as drunken voices called to her from the shadows.

"Oi, princess, what's a pretty thing like you doin' out so late? And in such a nice dress, too…"

"C'mere, love, and I'll rid the chill from those luscious lips!"

"Well look-ee here, boys, God's done sent us an angel to keep us warm tonight!"

She faltered at the last one, knowing danger when she saw it. A group of teenage urchins was huddled over a trash-bin fire, roasting what appeared to have once been an alley cat. They all looked up as the eldest boy crowed after her, and she counted six pairs of eyes glowing in the firelight. Her own eyes narrowed as she quickly weighed her options. Running would be useless; she was unfamiliar with this neighborhood, and even if she were, she was weighed down by heavy skirts. On the other hand, she was a good street fighter, and knew where and when to deal a swift kick. But even _she_ couldn't take down six boys at once.

Tilting her head sweetly to one side, she puckered her lips and sauntered towards the pack of urchins. Plan C it was.

"Good evening, gentleman," she purred.

Cheshire cat grins split the faces of all six. The one who had spoken before – the eldest – took a bold step forward. "It's about to be," he predicted, his eyes glittering hungrily in the firelight.

Her lips tipped upwards in a seductive smile. "Aye, I could very well make this the best night of your young life," she boasted, being sure to let the shawl fall open to reveal her corseted chest. Six pairs of eyes fell to her breasts as if she had unveiled a case of shimmering gold. _This will be all too easy…_

The eldest took another step forward, and she got her first good look at the boy. Dirt and stubble littered his face, and he stank as if he'd never had a bath in his life. He was not as old as his towering frame suggested; the boy was perhaps sixteen or seventeen, she guessed. Still, there was a flicker of intelligence in his greedy eyes.

"Name yer price, wench. And mind you, if we ain't satisfied with it, we got other means of… persuadin' you to stick around."

She batted her eyelashes and eased forward, so that he was within arm's reach. "T'ain't money I'm after, boy, though I'm sure you got plenty." She jerked her head at one of the younger boys. "Got 'im pickpocketin' every bloke from 'ere to kingdom come, ain'tcha?"

The youngest boy's chest puffed up like a rooster, and he beamed. "You bet I do! I'm the best damn pickpocket the world's ever – OW!" He fell to the street with a smack as one of the other boys kicked him solidly in the ribs.

"Shut up, Éduoard, Christ!" snarled the boy who'd kicked him.

Emily's smile broadened into a knowing smirk as she turned her gaze back to the eldest boy. His expression had soured, but he appeared to be in no shape to back down. "We got some money, aye. But you said that t'weren't what you were after." He eyed her up and down once. "What is it, then, drugs?"

"Protection," Emily replied coolly. "You lot won't be the last to call after me tonight, but I ain't interested in no one else. I deal in… _exclusive_ engagements, if you get my drift. I need to be sure it's a man guardin' 'is woman, not some pansy boy."

The eldest boy offered her a toothless grin, and held back his grimy outer coat to reveal a pistol tucked into his belt. "I've got yeh covered, sweet lips. Ain't nobody else gonna touch yeh tonight if I have anything to say about it."

One of the younger boys sidled forward with a hurt look on his face. "Except us, right, boss? We get a piece of her too, right, boss?"

The elder boy turned to him with a hiss. "Which part of 'exclusive' didn't you get, yeh stupid fuck? She's mine tonight. Serge gets her tomorrow, then Maurice the next night, then Jacquot, then you, then Éduoard."

"Why am I always the last?" Éduoard pouted, still massaging his chest where he'd been kicked.

"Because you're the youngest and stupidest," Maurice spat.

Emily tuned out the childish bickering and reclaimed the undivided attention on the eldest boy. "Shall we… find a place a bit more private, then?"

The toothless grin returned. "Aye, right this way."

The other boys whistled and catcalled appreciatively as their leader took Emily's hand and led her off into an adjacent alleyway. No sooner had they rounded the corner out of the other urchins' sight than the boy had her pinned against the dilapidated brick wall, his hungry, toothless mouth pressed to hers. His hands went straight to her corset-bound breasts, and she patiently allowed him to fondle them. Drawing upon years of practice, she arched her back and gasped with feigned pleasure to build the eager lad's ego. Already he was grinding against her, the evidence of his desire for her hard and demanding even with the many layers of skirts between them. In one swift movement, she grabbed him by the shirt collar and spun him around so that he was pressed up against the wall. The boy moaned in delight, mistaking the action for one of passion.

Emily lowered her mouth to the boy's neck and swirled her tongue in skillful circles while her hands snuck beneath his overcoat and slid down his torso. He was limp and completely helpless in her arms; it took him several seconds to snap out of his elated daze and realize that she had ceased in her advances. When he unscrewed his eyes, he found himself looking straight into the mouth of his own pistol.

"Not a word, boy," Emily hissed into his ear.

His expression melted quickly from one of shock to a furious sneer.

"Real buzz killer, ain't I?" Emily smirked, giving the boy's cheek a mocking pat with her free hand. "But don't worry. I ain't about to waste these bullets on the likes of you. I got bigger fish to fry tonight." Offering a mock pout, she leaned in and offered him a consoling kiss. "Thanks for the gun, love." And with a single, blunt hit with the butt of the pistol, the boy dropped, unconscious, at her feet.

Sighing heavily, Emily straightened her corset, tucked the gun into her cleavage, and wrapped the shawl around herself again. Briefly she considered heading off in the opposite direction, and then thought better of it. Instead, she sauntered back toward the other boys, wearing the same seductive smirk she'd left with.

Little Éduoard was the first to notice her. "Hey, she's back!" He looked behind her, and saw only darkness. "Where's Bruno?"

Emily's smirk only widened. "'E's, ah… takin' a moment to recover." At that, Serge and Maurice snorted with laughter, and soon the younger boys joined in, though they seemed to be unsure of what exactly they were laughing at. "Don't give 'im too 'ard a time when 'e gets back, now."

"Oh trust me, we will," Serge said with a wolfish grin.

All traces of a smile disappeared from Emily's face as soon as she turned her back on those cackling hyenas. This time, she walked at a much more clipped pace as she headed for her next destination. The solid weight of the gun gave her much more confidence than she'd originally felt, but it was only a matter of time before Bruno regained consciousness and sent his boys after her with a vengeance. Although they were nothing but fiendish little thieves, she knew what it was like to be an orphan on the streets. She had no interest in taking their pathetic little lives, if she could help it.

There was only one life she was interested in taking tonight.

She turned north into the bitter wintry wind, her eyes darting periodically from storefront to storefront. _There has to be one here somewhere…_

"Aha!" she said under her breath as her eyes fell upon a dimly lit, hole-in-the-wall store. A rusted sign above the awning read _Pharmacie._ Even without the cognate, Emily would have known this sort of establishment from its murky exterior. This was no friendly neighborhood apothecary; this was the kind of place that no self-respecting gentleman or lady would enter if their lives depended on it.

Her heart thrilled when she found the door unlocked. It was just her luck that it would still be open at this time in the evening; most likely, the majority of its customers preferred to do their business in the dark of the night.

A grizzled, frightening looking woman jerked her head in acknowledgment of Emily's presence, and grunted as a dual means of greeting and inquiry as to her business.

"Poison," Emily uttered, straight to the point. "Something powerful, and quick."

The woman bared her rotten, yellowed teeth in what Emily presumed to be a grin. "Aye, I got just the thing." She turned her back and hobbled into a dark room. Emily heard several drawers opening and shutting, causing the bottled liquids inside them to rattle and slosh about. At last the woman emerged, carrying a tiny vial of clear liquid.

"Pure extract of foxglove – it will stop the drinker's heart cold in his chest."

Emily nodded, and pulled a roll of crumpled bills from her corset. Foxglove was a very innocent-sounding name for a very deadly flower; on the streets, it was known more commonly as Witches' Gloves, or Dead Man's Bells. A few drops of this poison, in concentrate, would topple a full-grown draft horse in a matter of minutes. She eyed the clear liquid with a malicious smirk before tucking the vial into her corset.

With a single, curt nod to the apothecary, she ducked back out into the biting wind.

Endless murder possibilities chased themselves through her head as she walked steadily out of the seedy neighborhood and into a commercial district. Pubs and restaurants were thriving now, as working class customers trickled in for supper. A quick glance at a church tower several blocks away revealed that it was only 7:15. Emily blinked, startled; she had thought it was much later, as it had been dark for several hours – but then again, the sun set so early in these winter months. Could it have been just six hours ago that she'd stood with Raoul in the chapel, clutching his warm hands in hers and whispering her "I do"s?

She shook the thought from her head. She didn't want to think about Raoul.

She waved down a hansom cab, and accepted his hand up into the carriage. "To the Opera Populaire, please."

The driver hesitated as he climbed back into his seat. "Er, sorry to be the bearer of bad news, madame, but the opera has been shut down for nearly two years now."

"'as it really?" she gasped, feigning innocence. "Such a shame! Last I was 'ere, it was a bloomin' success."

"Aye, that it was, madame. But even in Britain, you must have heard the tale of the Phantom of the Opera?"

"I 'aven't, actually. But nevertheless, I wanted to stop for a bite at the little café just near the opera, so if you'd please, sir…"

"Right away, madame," the driver said kindly, whipping his horse forward.

Emily's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she studied the back of the driver's head. She hadn't actually paused to put a great deal of thought into how she would find her victim in that dilapidated mess of a building.

"So… what was that you were sayin' about a Phantom of the Opera, monsieur?" she asked lightly.

"Oh, quite the tale, that is!" he answered, before diving into the story with great gusto.

Emily stopped him only once, leaning slightly forward in her seat. "Through her dressing room mirror, you say?"

"Aye, right through the mirror! The same mirror that the Giry girl led the mob through when… well that's later, isn't it? Anyway—"

Fifteen minutes later, the driver wheeled them past the boarded-up remains of the opera house, and came to a halt a few blocks further up, at le Café de l'Opèra.

"—never seen a trace of him since. All a great deal of nonsense, sendin' a mob after a ghost, don't you think? Not like they could catch him!"

"Nonsense indeed," Emily murmured, accepting the driver's hand as he helped her down to the curb. Before waiting to hear the fee for the ride, she stuffed several large bills into his hand.

"You've been ever so 'elpful, monsieur," she said with a sweet smile. "Now if you'd kindly wait 'ere, I've got some errands to run before takin' supper at the café. Won't take more than an 'our or two. Then I'll need a ride back to my estate."

The driver eyed the money incredulously, and then his chubby face split in a grin as he tipped his hat. "For that kind of money, madame, I'll wait here all week!"

"Good man," she said, patting him on the shoulder. So absorbed in counting the bills was the driver that he didn't notice her head off in the opposite direction – straight toward the opera house.

And toward the dressing room mirror that would lead her to Christine.

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**A/N: Dun dun dunn-nn-nn-nn-nn.**


	70. Panic

**A/N: This one's a shorty, but the final pieces are starting to click together…**

**P.S. This is the fifth chapter update in three weeks. I'm on a roll, people!**

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The meek little servant girl moved so quietly through the house that Jean Claude nearly bowled over her as he rounded the corner into the main parlor. Both parties gasped as they came within centimeters of each other, and took startled steps backward.

"Good heavens, child, you nearly frightened me to death!" said the old butler, pressing a hand to his frantically beating heart.

"Begging your pardon, sir," the servant girl mumbled. Jean Claude eyed her with concern as she lowered her gaze to the floor and wrung her small white hands. Young Colette was an invaluable asset to the de Chagny household – a good and dutiful servant, but more importantly, a keen observer who knew the importance of prudent silence. Although she was not yet thirteen years old, she had earned the unwavering trust of the old butler. He had recovered her from the Duchess's estate the very morning after Emily's surprise return, anxious to hear her report. To his great relief, he found through his little spy that Emily had minded herself well in the Duchess's service, and appeared to have left her life of sin behind her. Still, he did not miss the apprehensive look Colette gave the former prostitute every time she was in the room. He didn't blame the girl at all; to be frank, he didn't trust the new Mistress any more than she did. They both knew what she was capable of, and kept a watchful eye on her.

That was why he was so disconcerted now; Colette had the distinct look of trepidation about her, and that never boded well for the de Chagny family. Worriedly, he reached out and touched the girl's shoulder. "What's the matter, child?"

Colette raised her eyes up to him. "It's… it's Master Cedric, sir."

The butler frowned a little. "Yes, I hear him fussing. Time for his evening feeding, I believe. Never mind it; the Mistress has made it very clear that she is to have sole responsibility for the boy. She will soothe him back to sleep."

"That's just it, sir," the girl murmured. "Normally Madame Emily is very attentive to her son's needs. But he has been fretful for a quarter of an hour, sir, with no sign of her."

A blush crept into the butler's cheeks as his eyes darted upstairs. Perhaps Colette was still too young and naïve to grasp the significance of a couple's wedding night? He did not care to be the one to explain it to her. Instead, he offered her a patient, reassuring smile. "I will look into it, but I'm sure it's nothing. Go along now and join the others in the kitchen. Plenty of delicious leftovers from the evening meal."

Colette looked unconvinced, but dipped in a curtsy and complied like the obedient girl she was. Jean Claude looked after her with a smile until she disappeared through the double doors into the kitchens. _Poor, skittish little child, _he thought. _She was frightened so terribly that now she sees demons in every shadow._

With a sigh, he began to hobble up the main staircase, and headed directly for the nursery. The baby's wails had reached a frantic crescendo that only increased in volume as Jean Claude drew nearer to the door. Wincing at the deafening noise, the old butler began to make gentle shushing sounds as he entered the room and limped over to the crib. In his time, he had raised seven children of his own, and was all too familiar with fussy infants. He looked upon the tiny baby with pity as the little one squirmed and flailed, his red face drenched in tears and spittle.

"I know, little master, you're just starving, aren't you?" he murmured sympathetically. "Your mother should be in soon to tend to you. Yes, very soon… Shush now…"

The baby's screams only intensified, and he twisted his little body furiously.

Jean Claude chuckled. "Well, you certainly inherited the de Chagny temper, didn't you?" The humor faded from his expression as he glanced back at the door. Naturally, he understood the need to… _bond_ on one's wedding night, but he would have thought that the child's raging screams would have served as a bit of incentive for them to… well, hurry it up a bit!

Sure enough, the door clicked open a moment later, though the person on the other side of it was not who Jean Claude expected to see.

"What in the world is going on in here?" Master Raoul demanded as he crossed the room, his forehead furrowed in concern.

The old butler stepped aside to allow his master access to the crib. Immediately, Raoul scooped the screaming infant up and held him to his shoulder, patting his back in a futile attempt to calm him.

"He's in great want of his evening feeding, sir," Jean Claude explained. "But, being your wedding night and all, no one thought it proper to interrupt the happy couple."

Raoul's expression soured, and the butler knew instinctively that he had tapped a raw nerve.

"_Happy couple_," the young man muttered, a faraway look in his eye. "Right." Then, with an angry shake of his head, he demanded, "Well, where's Emily?"

It was only then that Jean Claude noted that Master Raoul was still fully clothed in the outfit he had been wearing at supper. An unexplainable knot of dread formed in his stomach as he stammered, "Sh-she isn't with you, sir?"

The Comte's face flushed a dark red that almost matched his son's. "We… had a bit of a falling out. I left her in her quarters."

The knot in the butler's stomach tightened. Something was not right here. Frowning, he took a step toward his master, holding out his arms to the screaming child. "Allow me, sir. If Madame Emily is reluctant to leave her quarters, perhaps I should simply bring the young master to her."

Raoul's features hardened. "No need. I will bring him myself." And, turning sharply on his heel, he stormed out of the nursery. Jean Claude stood rooted to the spot, wincing as the comte's footsteps stamped down the hallway, accompanied by the infant shrieking at the top of its lungs. The hired help would be having a field day with this tomorrow.

He slunk wearily out to the hallway, and sure enough, saw at least a dozen eager faces peering up from the foyer. Deciding that chastising them would do absolutely no good, he simply sighed in resignation and clutched his temples, feeling a migraine coming on.

"Emily? Emily! Open the door!" The master knocked with the knuckles of his left hand, and clutched the baby in his right. "For the love of God, be angry at me all you want, but don't force our son to suffer for my mistake, or your own ridiculous pride!"

Slowly, Jean Claude approached the count, one hand held out in front of him to show that he meant no harm. "My lord," he said haltingly, "Perhaps if your presence is a source of aggravation for her, it would be best to send another in your stead?"

Raoul turned to glare at him, his chest heaving. Gradually, the fury left his eyes, and in its place shone raw, searing hurt. "How can she be so heartless as to ignore the cries of her own son? Her flesh and blood?"

The butler wanted nothing more in that moment than to confide in this passionate young man that pride was the _least_ of his wife's sins. Instead, he swiveled his palms upwards in a shrug.

With a sigh and a disgusted shake of his head, Raoul reached for the doorknob, and, to his surprise, found it unlocked. The room was dark, and he stepped into it hesitantly, with Jean Claude on his heels.

"Emily?" he called into the silent room.

The sheets were rumpled, the wardrobe door open, the candles still burning on the bedside table. But there was no sign of the Comtesse.

A quiet voice spoke behind them, barely audible over the baby's cries. "She's gone."

Both the Comte and the butler turned to see Colette in the doorway, her face ghostly pale and her eyes wide and frightened. She glanced first at the baby, then settled her gaze on Jean Claude. "You must tell him what we know, monsieur."

Raoul's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he glanced from the servant girl to Jean Claude. "Tell me what? Who are you?"

The girl began to tremble uncontrollably, like a rabbit at the end of a musket. She turned pleading eyes to the butler, begging him silently to speak for her.

"This is Colette, Master. She is a household maid, and has been assigned to Madame Emily's service since your arrival at the estate last year."

Raoul seemed to place her in his memory, for a familiar spark lit his eyes. Taking a step forward, he said, "Well then, kindly explain yourself, Colette. What do you mean Emily is '_gone_'? Where would she go?"

The child only shook harder, and glanced fearfully at Jean Claude again. Both servants locked gazes, and shared entire unspoken conversations with the weight of their eyes. At last, Jean Claude swallowed, placed his hand on the girl's shoulders, and turned to face their master.

"My lord, I have been a humble and devoted servant to the de Chagny family for three generations." His eyes darted to the fussing baby, and he amended, "Four, with Master Cedric. I know my place in this household, as does young Colette. Neither of us would dare to step out of line, except in the direst of circumstances. Unfortunately, my lord, dire circumstances are upon us, and so I must ask you…" He wet his lips, and struggled to speak past the knot in his chest. "Your… the 'falling out' that you spoke of…" With one last glance at Colette for encouragement, he asked boldly, "It didn't, perchance, have anything to do with Mistress Christine, did it?"

Ocean blue eyes flashed with too many emotions to name. The Comte's brow knitted, and he answered carefully, "If it did… what would that have to do with Emily's whereabouts?"

"Everything," the butler answered in a hoarse whisper. The knot in his gut throbbed with searing pain as he realized that his master had not denied the source of the argument. In that one unspoken truth lay perhaps the greatest danger of all; it was Colette's prediction come true, and Raoul's worst nightmare about to transpire. Throwing caution to the wind, Jean Claude took a deep breath, and explained.

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Realization dawned so slowly upon the Comte's face that the change was almost imperceptible. Then, all at once, he staggered as if he'd been winded, and Jean Claude rushed forward to help. He quickly took the baby and handed him to Colette before helping his master to sit down on the bed.

Raoul's mouth hung open in shock for several long minutes before he managed to whisper hoarsely, "H… how could I have been so blind?"

"Emily is a cunning woman, my lord," Jean Claude said gently. "She had us all fooled. If Colette had not overheard her confessions before God, none of us would have ever guessed at her treacherous ways."

"I laid with her." The young man's face was taut, with a pulsing vein protruding from his forehead, and Jean Claude feared that he would soon be sick to his stomach. "I laid with her not an hour after they buried my brother. She _killed him_ and then she laid with me."

"No one blames you, Raoul," the butler insisted, using the boy's Christian name in an attempt to keep him grounded. "But we must move quickly if we are to prevent another innocent's murder tonight."

All of the color slowly drained from Raoul's face. "You believe she…" His breaths began to come in shallow, quick gasps as his eyes darted frantically from Colette to Jean Claude. "That's why you asked if the fight was about…" Suddenly he was on his feet, and sprinting for his bedroom. Jean Claude followed, and had only just made it to the hallway before the boy came barreling back out of his room, strapping a sword to his belt as he ran. His feet barely touched the stairs as he flew down them and out the front door into the snowy night.

Ignoring the protests of his arthritic ankles, Jean Claude ran after him, his lungs rattling and wheezing with the effort. He hobbled out onto the porch just in time to see Master Raoul leap atop a bareback gelding, mercilessly ramming his heels into the beast's sides. The horse reared up with a squeal before taking off at a breakneck gallop down the cobblestone drive. Within seconds, they disappeared around a corner, and soon the echo of hoofbeats faded into the distance.

For once, every servant in the household stood in complete silence. Only baby Cedric's dwindling cries broke the stillness that entombed the de Chagny mansion. Clutching him in her trembling arms, Colette stepped out onto the porch to stare out into the darkness.

"God be with them," she whispered brokenly, giving voice to the desperate prayer that lingered in all the servants' souls that night.

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**A/N: Oh, the suspense! Oh, the horror! Oh, how I love it. –cackles- **

**Review, my darlings… I'm interested to hear what you think will happen! Will Raoul make it in time? Will Erik? Will Emily find her way down to the fifth cellar – and will she make it there alive? Will Christine survive the night? **

**Most importantly, will de Chagny ever learn to SADDLE his poor horse before riding off gallantly to rescue the damsel in distress? xD**

**Stay tuned to find out!**


	71. Revenge

**A/N: WOW! Evidently any time I want some new readers, the key is to post a fluffy E/C oneshot? Haha. Good to know. Hi, new people! Welcome to Evergreen. :)**

**I must say, o beloved readers of mine, that I am quite fascinated by the range of emotion where Emily is concerned. It's very interesting to hear just how much some of you hate her, and wish her dead… considering all the parallels to Erik's character. ;) Think on that for a minute.**

**In other news, thank you SO very much to my new beta, Llandaf, who has signed on to edit these last few chapters. I can't begin to express how grateful I am to have a second pair of eyes to help with this final process.**

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Each step she took sent a fresh spark of electricity through Emily's nervous system. Despite the cold, her face was coated in a fine sheen of sweat. She could feel the blood in her veins and the air in her lungs – the hot pulse of adrenaline, and the icy hatred that had formed in the cavity where her heart should have been. It was a night of contrasts, of dangerous highs and lows, and it was finally catching up to her. Gone was her detached calm, and in its place was the trembling anticipation of a lioness about to strike.

It was only too easy to break into the ruins of the opera house. She obviously wasn't the first to have the idea; booted tracks through the ash and a few filthy piles of newspapers suggested that some of Paris's homeless had taken eagerly to the shelter. There didn't appear to be anyone in the building at the moment, though, and Emily began to wonder if the temporary occupants had left of their own accord, or if Erik had, well… _disposed_ of them.

_Erik._ What a pathetic excuse for a human being _he_ was! Still, Emily held a great deal more pity and compassion for the masked man than for his disgusting choice of a lover. If the carriage driver's story was even remotely true, it sounded like Emily and Erik had far more in common than she would have liked to admit. Both had fallen hopelessly in love with persons completely beyond their reach – he a deformed recluse and she an orphaned prostitute. They had each adopted longstanding lies, in the hopes that their lovers would learn, in time, to truly love the injured souls for themselves. Indeed, both had killed to protect that love, no matter the cost.

_How unfair, _Emily mused bitterly as she picked through the ashen ruins. _He rides off into the sunset with the love of his life, and here I am, alone. _Then again, she couldn't ever remember a time in her life when anything was fair. Emily had come to accept that the world was her enemy, and in order to survive it with even a scrap of dignity intact, she would have to fight tooth and nail for what she wanted.

Right now, what she wanted was Christine's blood – an eye for an eye. If she was going to be miserable for the rest of her life, she'd be damned if that filthy wench was going to live happily ever after! Briefly she had considered simply killing Erik, and letting Christine suffer with her crippling grief for the rest of her life, but then the little tramp would undoubtedly come crying back to Raoul. Given his slip of the tongue earlier in the evening, Emily was unwilling to take the chance of him coming into contact with his ex-wife ever again. Christine had interfered with their marriage for the last time. Emily was about to make very sure of that.

It didn't take long for her to find the dressing rooms, just adjacent to the burnt ruins of the stage. Many of the smaller rooms had collapsed in the fire, and Emily had to climb over the fallen wreckage to reach the two suites at the end of the hall. A quick glance in the suite to the left revealed that it had obviously belonged to the male lead. Holding her breath, she pushed aside the remains of the door to the dressing room on the right.

Oddly enough, it appeared that this room had barely been touched by the fire, yet its contents had been thoroughly ravaged. The vanity and chairs were overturned, their legs broken off. Pieces of shattered glass and shriveled flower petals covered the floor. The changing screen was shredded. Pictures that presumably had once hung on the walls were broken and trampled on the ground. On the far side of the room, a gaping black hole stood in the wall, surrounded by jagged glass edges.

_Well, would you look at that? It appears that the mob did all my preparation for me!_ Emily thought smugly as she stepped into the ruined room. Glass shards crunched under her feet, and she jumped at the noise. Looking around nervously, she listened hard, but heard only silence. Still, she pulled the gun from her corset and held it out in front of her – just in case.

Emily paused before the shattered remains of the two-way mirror, staring uncertainly into the dripping, dark hallway behind it. Erik had certainly done a fine job of making any potential intruders think twice before entering. It was like a scene straight out of the gothic novels that had frightened her out of her wits as a child. An icy draft blew from the gaping darkness, and she shivered involuntarily. Before venturing down into the cellars, she decided that she most certainly needed a light source. She backtracked into the main hallway, where half-burnt torches lined the walls. She selected the one that appeared to be the least damaged, and then went back into the dressing room to rummage for matches. With all the toppled candlesticks around, surely there must be some in there somewhere.

After pulling the drawers out of the remains of the vanity, she found what she was looking for. The silence was so oppressive that even the soft scratching of the match on the side of the matchbox seemed deafening to her sensitized ears. Eyeing the ominous hall nervously, she brandished the lit torch like a weapon in front of her. With the torch in one hand and the gun in the other, she finally felt confident enough to march through the broken mirror and into the murky tunnel.

Cobwebs hung all around her, and the drafts that rattled through the catacombs made all sorts of terrifying noises. More times than she cared to count, she nearly leapt out of her skin as the torchlight revealed the grotesquely twisted faces of stone gargoyles along the walls. Somehow, she managed not to scream; instead, she laughed silently at her own skittishness. _Oh, well done Erik. You must think yourself very clever to have fashioned such a frightening passageway. You must have thought to yourself, 'Ha ha! No one will ever be brave enough to venture down here!' Felt like the cat who got the cream, didn't you, old boy? Well, it may have worked on everyone else, but not me, no sir, I ain't afraid of no cellar._

With each step taking her deeper and deeper into what seemed to be a bottomless abyss, she found her heart rate increasing until she swore every sentient being in Paris could hear it. Down and down she spiraled, slipping more than once on the slick stone.

Panic had just about set in when, finally, the path dead-ended at the underground lake. There was a small dock and a coil of rope where, presumably, a boat should have been tied. With a stab of dread, she realized that it must be on the other side of the lake, where Erik and Christine lived.

She pressed her lips together into a thin white line as she deliberated on what to do. There had been other passageways back up the path. Did those perhaps lead around the lake? It was possible, but then again, if the carriage driver's story held a grain of truth, there was a great chance that they were booby-trapped. Even if they weren't, she could be lost for days in this dark labyrinth. On the other hand, his story told that the Giry girl had led the mob and the gendarmes across the underground lake. That was the surest way to arrive at her destination.

As she eyed the dark water fearfully, she began to wonder… Certainly the entire mob could not have fit into a single boat! Perhaps the lake was not as deep as it looked.

Setting the torch down, she grabbed the coil of rope, and lowered it into the water in a straight vertical line. Once she felt the tip hit the bottom, she pulled up the rope and examined how much of it was wet. Judging it against her own height, she realized that the water level wasn't any more than waist-deep. It was, however, bitterly cold – perhaps only a few degrees above freezing. She would have to be insane to try to wade through it in these winter months; surely she'd catch her death!

Biting her lip, she dropped the coil of rope and looked from the lake back up to the tunnel behind her. Did she dare to backtrack into a web of tunnels plagued with Erik's death traps? God only knew what dark and twisted horrors awaited her back there.

With a slow nod, she decided that it was better to face a known danger than an unknown one. The lake was the only sure way.

For several minutes she stood on the stone ledge that separated dry ground from the water, her eyes squeezed firmly shut. In an attempt to steel herself, she pictured her goal in her mind's eye: Christine on her hands and knees, with the gun pressed to her head, begging Emily for mercy that would never be granted. Revenge, sweet revenge! Surely it was worth a few minutes of uncomfortable cold to be rid of that filthy parasite. Emily would never have to look over her shoulder, or worry that Christine would come crawling back to Raoul. She would be gone for good, and Emily could finally have peace.

Finally, she opened her eyes, and set her jaw resolutely. Lifting the torch above her head so that it wouldn't be splashed and sputter out, she sucked in a deep breath, and stepped down into the water in one quick movement.

Immediately she gasped so loudly that the sound echoed off of the stone walls several times. She expected to feel cold; instead, it was as if her skin was being scalded off! Blinding pain shot up her nerves, and she stuffed her fist into her mouth to keep from letting out a bloodcurdling scream. She whimpered and gasped around her knuckles, and, with pure strength of will, forced one leg forward, and then the other. In water this cold she knew her body temperature would drop rapidly. She had to keep moving. She had to reach the other side and get out of this godforsaken lake before she froze to death. By now it was just as far back to the carriage waiting outside le Café de l'Opèra as it was to Christine. There was no sense turning back.

Emily let out a sigh of relief through her chattering teeth as blissful numbness set in several minutes later. It was an odd sensation; she knew that her legs were moving because she continued to surge forward through the waist-deep water, but she could not feel them at all. _It would be just my luck_, she mused darkly, _if I finally got rid of Christine, only lose my limbs from the hips-down._

To motivate herself, and to distract her mind from the freezing cold, she mapped out exactly how she wanted the murder to transpire. The first, and probably only obstacle once she reached the opposite shore, was Erik. While she had no real desire to kill him, she supposed the only way she'd ever get to Christine was over his dead body. He was a dangerous one, though, especially when protecting the woman he loved. There would be no room for error. As soon as he was in range, she'd shoot him in the chest.

Christine, on the other hand… well, that was a different issue entirely. Emily fully intended to toy with her prey before killing her. There was significantly less fun in simply putting a bullet through that pretty curly head of hers than drawing out the torture. She'd have to find some sort of emotional blackmail in order to get Christine to drink the poison. Perhaps she'd threaten to kill Raoul if Christine didn't comply. The little fool was just stupid enough to buy it. Of course, Emily would never harm a hair on her beloved's head, but Christine didn't need to know that. She'd drink the poison, and Emily would watch with utter satisfaction as the life drained out of the former Comtesse. Perhaps if Christine asked very nicely, Emily would be merciful, and shoot her after a while. Then again, perhaps not.

Emily's heart rate had increased to a dangerous level by the time she, quite literally, saw the light at the end of the tunnel. Her whole body had begun to spasm, and it was increasingly more difficult to force her numb legs forward. Still, the end was in sight, and it spurred her forward with newfound motivation. As the light grew brighter, she dropped her torch into the lake with a sputtering hiss. She used her now-free hand to clutch at the crevices in the wall. Still, she kept her gun pointed forward, though it shook horribly in her trembling hand.

Any hope she'd harbored of a sneak attack was now dashed; she lurched and splashed loudly through the water with each heave of her quaking biceps. Perhaps it was her runaway imagination, but for a moment she even thought she heard the clanging of a bell somewhere ahead of her. Either way, she was certain that Erik was already aware of her presence. He would be awaiting her arrival. Before he could launch any sort of counter attack, she would have to be sure to hit him with her first shot.

Though it seemed to have taken hours, Emily finally reached the last corner before the lake tapered in to the grotto that served as Erik's lair. The air was warmer, and smelled of candle smoke. Light glittered off of the water, and she could see down to her feet now. She tried to wiggle her toes, wincing when they didn't move. She needed to get out of the water immediately.

Her fingers flexed on the handle of the pistol as she tested her own grip. Although her fingers were growing numb, they moved better than her toes. It was enough to pull the trigger, and that was good enough, she supposed. It would have to be.

Sucking in a deep breath, Emily gritted her teeth and rounded the corner in one jerky movement. Raising the pistol, she looked for her target, but found only an empty grotto.

With a flash of panic, it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps he and Christine had relocated. Her chest constricted at the very thought. But the candles were not yet burned down… if they had left, it would have been very recently.

Cautiously, she dragged herself toward the shore, her eyes constantly scanning her surroundings for any flicker of movement. Despite the apparent evacuation, she had the distinct feeling that she wasn't alone, and it was setting her on edge. Emily had fully expected to be met head-on by an enraged Erik, charging at her like a bull for a red flag. A sinking feeling of dread clamped her innards as she realized that she could very well be caught in a trap. Erik knew this twisted labyrinth as she did not. He could be hiding anywhere.

Her nervousness only multiplied when she climbed out of the water. Still, she was not met by a sudden attack. Nearly tripping over her own dress, she turned in a complete circle with the gun held at eye level.

Nothing.

And then, somewhere to her left, a noise… a murmur, so soft Emily almost thought she had imagined it. She strained her ears, holding deathly still, and waited.

There! There it was again.

Her pulse roared in her ears. As she slowly turned to the source of the noise she saw a curtained doorway off to her left. Her feet dragged, numb with cold, as she limped toward it. Her eyes sparkled with the thirst for blood. She was so close now…

"Erik?" called a sleepy female voice from the other side of the curtain. "Back so soon?" Emily paused, and a malicious grin slowly spread across her face. So, Erik had left his beloved unguarded and alone, had he? Perhaps fate _was _on her side after all.

Emboldened and near euphoric at this new revelation, Emily almost burst into hysterical laughter. Instead, she adopted the cocky swagger she normally reserved for late-night customers, and slid through the curtain with the gun aimed directly at Christine's…

_Baby?_

"You!" Christine gasped. Her brown eyes widened in horror as they fell upon the pistol in Emily's outstretched hand. Immediately, her arms moved in a protective stance over the tiny infant that slept on her chest.

Emily's mouth fell open and then shut again several times as she tried desperately to recollect her wits. How could she have forgotten? She'd known damned well that Christine was carrying a child at the same time that she'd been carrying Cedric. The paternity of the baby had been the nail in the coffin of Christine's marriage to Raoul. Emily herself had set the Comte straight on that matter! But somehow, Christine's child had always been more of a theory than an actual being, in Emily's mind. In all of her detailed plans of how she anticipated this evening to go, it had never occurred to her that a baby would be involved.

_You cannot falter now, _a voice in her head whispered insistently. _She has seen the pistol. She knows your intentions. If you don't go through with this, she will tell Erik what happened, and he knows where to find you. Think of Cedric's safety! If Erik finds out that you intended to kill his beloved, the whole de Chagny household will be dead by morning. You must strike now, before he comes after your own loved ones in revenge!_

Emily forced herself to look away from the sleeping infant, and into the eyes of the woman who was the very bane of her existence.

"Good evening, Christine," she said, hoping that she sounded more malicious than she felt. The woman who crouched before her, cradling her baby with a look of sheer terror on her face, was not the fragile fool of a teenager Emily remembered. She was a mother now. Somehow, it was infinitely harder to look upon this new Christine and dredge up those same feelings of pure abhorrence that had fueled her for so long.

_Cedric, _she reminded herself desperately. _Do it to save Cedric. You can't go back now._

"Get out," Christine choked, scrambling back on the bed, trying to put as much distance between them as she could. "Get away from me!"

"Unfortunately, I can't do that," Emily said, keeping her pistol trained on the other woman's forehead. "You 'ave an appointment with Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates tonight, duckie, and I'm sure 'e 'as a question or two about your recent affairs down 'ere on earth."

Christine had begun to shake her head fretfully. "Y-you can't do this. I have a baby. My daughter needs me—"

"Aye, what she'll _need _from you tonight is to keep your bloody mouth shut and to do exactly as I say, understand?"

"Don't hurt her," Christine begged, "Please, please don't hurt her…"

"Now, why would I do that? She ain't done nothin' wrong."

"Please, Emily, I-"

"That's _Comtesse_ to you!" Emily knew that her terrible cold spasms were undermining her authority. She was shaking harder than Christine! The pistol rattled unsteadily in her grasp, and so she grabbed it with both hands to keep it still. "Or didn't you 'ear? Raoul and I were married earlier this afternoon."

Confusion and fear chased themselves across Christine's young face. "I – I don't understand. If you have what you wanted, why are you after me?"

Emily's lip curled in a sneer. "You ask a lot of questions for a woman at the wrong end of a pistol. I thought I told you to keep your bloody mouth shut."

Offering a shaky nod, Christine swallowed and hugged her daughter closer.

"Now." Emily reached into her corset, and pulled out the vial of foxglove. "Do you know what this is?" Mahogany eyes widened, and Emily took that as a yes. "Right powerful stuff, this is. Word on the street says it'll knock a draft 'orse dead in five minutes." She eyed Christine up and down once. "Let's make a deal, shall we? You look like a strong little thing. I'll give you… three minutes, tops. If you ain't dead yet, I'll be gracious and put you out of your misery." She waggled the pistol for emphasis.

Despite the blatant terror in her eyes, Christine's jaw had begun to jut out defiantly. "You won't get away with this, Emily. Erik will be back any moment, and he will know who did this. He will hunt you down before you even manage to get back up to the surface!"

Even as her heartbeat quickened at the very real threat, Emily forced herself to smirk. "Not if I find 'im first. Perhaps I'll just babysit the little darling until Papa Bear comes 'ome, eh? Some'ow I get the feelin' 'e'd much rather take the last bullet 'imself than 'ave it lodged in the baby's pretty little 'ead."

"You're sick," Christine spat, her voice a tremulous whisper.

The smirk widened. "Funny… I've always said the same thing about _you_." All traces of humor disappeared from Emily's face as quickly as they had come. She held out the vial of poison with her free hand, and shifted the pistol to the sleeping baby. "Now drink this down, you ungrateful bitch, before I send that precious bundle of yours right back to Jesus' arms."

Fear once again dominated Christine's dark eyes. "You-you said you wouldn't hurt her!"

"_If_ you cooperate!" Emily snarled. "And I ain't seein' much cooperatin' on your part!"

Christine had begun to shake almost as badly as Emily. Still, she hugged her daughter close, and reached out her hand for the vial.

_Triumph! _Hissed a dark voice in Emily's head. _Submission! Revenge!_ _Look at her cowering before you. This is what you've always wanted. _She tried as hard as she could to put her faith in that voice. Still, it was with marked reluctance that she dropped the vial into her enemy's palm.

As she stared at the vial containing liquid death, Christine drew in several deep, shuddering breaths. Although pain was written into every premature line on her face, all traces of panic – of fear – had dissolved completely. The muscles of her swanlike neck constricted as she swallowed hard.

"Her name is Claire," she said, running a slender finger down her daughter's soft pink cheek. "Please, Comtesse…" There was no irony in her voice; only sadness. "Take her somewhere safe."

Emily only nodded. She was afraid that her resolve might crack if she tried to speak.

With a single shake of her head, Christine uncorked the vial. "May God have mercy on your soul, Emily." To her credit, she didn't shed a single tear as she pressed one last kiss to her baby's forehead. Oddly enough, it was Emily who found that tears had sprung, unbidden and unwanted, to her eyes as her enemy whispered her final words.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the L-Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and bl-blessed is the… the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, M-Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour… the hour of our death." Taking one last, deep breath, Christine shut her eyes and brought the poison to her lips. "Amen…"

With her vision blurred and her senses dulled from the cold, Emily did not notice another presence enter the room until the sharp edge of a dagger was pressed against her throat.

"Don't move," snarled a distinctly familiar voice in her left ear.

* * *

**A/N: Ahem. Er, your authoress has left the building. She isn't here. Um. To receive death threats. Of any sort. Particularly the Punjab kind. And she asked me to say, very innocently, "What evil cliffhanger?"**


	72. Stalemate

**A/N: This chapter was utterly draining to write, partially because it's so emotionally charged, and partially because of the pressure I put on myself to make it just right. After seventy-some chapters of buildup, we reach our climax...**

**I cannot thank Llandaf enough for the HOURS and hours of work she poured into editing this chapter for me. She's my hero!**

* * *

There had been a time when dignitaries and servants alike had trembled at the very mention of his name. Blasphemously, they had called him "The Angel of Death." Blazing green eyes had been the last sight of many an unfortunate man caught on the wrong side of the Shadow of God. Years ago, Erik had been recruited to create increasingly inventive, horrific deaths for the entertainment of the Shah's mother. He had complied – not out of any loyalty to the cruel kharnum or even to save his own hide – but out of complete apathy towards the prisoners he was intended to kill. What did it matter whether they lived or died? No one had ever cared whether _Erik_ lived or died. If they did, they unwaveringly opted for the latter.

With a few glaring exceptions Erik had come to consider the bulk of humanity dispensable. Anyone who posed a persistent problem to him was eliminated with no more remorse than he would spare for a rodent or a cockroach. Joseph Buquet, for example, had been a pebble in his shoe for years. Erik had been only too glad to finally have an excuse to be rid of him. Piangi, on the other hand, had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Still, Erik had killed him unflinchingly. Over the years he had trained his mind to enter a state of complete indifference when strangling the life out of one of his victims. If he hadn't, he surely would have gone mad in Persia. The blood of hundreds stained his hands. If he paused to care about one man, then he would have had to care about all of them. Instead he forgot their faces as soon as their eyes glassed over.

Erik had always considered that mindset of perfect numbness to be the most powerful state of being imaginable. Any human could feel anger, shame, or despair, but to be able to feel _nothing _at all was the ultimate triumph to a soul who had been tortured his entire life. Long ago, Erik had simply found the internal switch to his emotions, and clicked them off whenever it suited him.

At any other point in his life Erik might have looked upon the British prostitute as just another victim, another checkmark on his acceptance list into Hell. The basis of her crime, in essence, was no greater than that of any other political prisoner he'd executed in cold blood. If she thought herself original by blackmailing her adversary into suicide, she was sorely mistaken. Erik himself had designed many dark and gruesome death traps along the same vein, but of a much more sophisticated nature. His torture chamber was a prime example. Like him, Emily also seemed to take very little pleasure in committing the murder. The difference was her weakness. She lacked the ability to turn her emotions off during a kill. Tears had sprung to her eyes as she watched her victim whisper her final _Hail Mary_. Come to think of it, she had also been an emotional wreck after assisting in the murder of Philippe de Chagny; as soon as the deed was done, she had doubled over retching. Her soul was far too fragile to be dealing with such darkness.

The hypocrisy of that judgment did not escape Erik. As he looked upon the scene before him he found himself just as weak, just as incapable of slipping into his trademark state of cold apathy as the tragic wreck of a woman. But it was certainly not remorse that plagued his soul as he stood trembling just outside the Louis-Philippe room.

Erik had known evil. He had carried it out himself. But nothing – _nothing_ compared to the darkness that stirred in him as he saw the mouth of a pistol pointed at his fiancée and child. Molten hatred boiled up from his soul, pushing up and out until it blistered his veins.

It was honestly a miracle that he didn't find a bullet lodged between his ribs, for he made no attempt to hide himself as he slipped into the bedroom. His fear of loss made him reckless. His mind was too anesthetized with panic to take any of the precautions of a sane man. Fortunately, Emily was too preoccupied with her own emotional battle to take any note of him. He brought a dagger to her jugular in one swift movement, pressing down hard enough to elicit pain, but not quite enough to draw blood.

"Don't move," he hissed through clenched teeth.

Across the room, Christine dropped the vial of poison from her lips. She visibly deflated and let out her breath in a great, shuddering gust. "Erik!"

Emily first stiffened in his grasp, and then gave a single, hoarse laugh. "Erik, 'ow nice of you to join us!" The blade was pressed so tightly to her throat that Erik could feel every vibration of her vocal chords through the dagger's handle. "And armed with a knife… déjà vu, innit?" She paused with mock thoughtfulness before continuing cheekily, "Ah, yes, I remember! You 'ad a dagger at my throat the first time we met. Best be careful, love – you're startin' to become predictable."

A muscle in Erik's temple twitched. It would have been easy… so incredibly easy to shut her up. The only way he managed to control his temper was by envisioning several gruesome deaths that would make his work in Persia look like child's play. After all, that was why he had chosen the dagger over his trusty Punjab lasso. With a dagger, he could get inventive. Depending on which vital parts he chose to slice open, and how slowly, and in which order, he could draw out Emily's death for several hours, at least. It would be much more satisfying than a quick jerk of catgut or, in this case, a slice across her neck. Emily could jeer all she wanted now, but by the end Erik knew she would be begging for mercy. The thought kept him grounded.

Ignoring Emily's taunts, Erik shifted his attention to his fiancée. "Did you drink any of the poison, Christine? Even a drop?"

She shook her head quickly. "No."

"You're certain?"

Emily let out another cold, humorless laugh. "Don't matter. She'll die either way."

In response, Erik shifted the tip of the blade so that it drew a thin trickle of blood. "If I were you, madam, I would still my tongue before I found it missing."

Impervious to his scare tactics, she sighed, "Idle threats, love. What was your plan, a quick draw? Come, come, Erik, you're smarter than that. I got a pistol trained on yer little brat. You really want to chance slittin' my throat? Be my guest. You'll 'ave a dead baby in the same instant, and the blood'll be on your 'ands."

At that, Christine instinctively curled up to shield the baby with her own body.

"_Don't move_!" both Erik and Emily snarled at her.

Blood roared in Erik's ears as the harsh reality of the situation struck him. Much as he hated to admit it, Emily was right. She was just desperate enough to pull that trigger even as she crumpled to the floor in death. To kill her was to risk killing his family. With a pang of recognition, he understood: Emily was past the point of caring what happened to her. By now she knew that she would die no matter what. Her sole purpose, in her last moments on earth, was to take Christine down with her. So long as Emily had that pistol pointed in the direction of her rival, she had just as much control over the situation as Erik.

Personal experience told him that there was nothing more dangerous than a person who believed they had nothing to lose. If Emily had truly fallen to that point, there was absolutely nothing Erik could do to dissuade her. Fortunately, he had reason to believe that she was not entirely gone. Her motive for killing Christine appeared to be pure jealousy. That was something Erik understood completely. He had spent years thirsting for the blood of that damned de Chagny boy. Jealousy had turned him into a madman, and he could certainly see the fringes of madness reflected in Emily's dark eyes.

This was a very good sign, indeed. Jealousy denoted attachment; attachment meant that she had something to lose. Emily was an extraordinarily cunning young woman to have pinpointed her opponent's weakness so quickly. By targeting Claire, she had assured Christine's compliance, even if it meant the young mother submitting to her own death. In order to level the playing field, Erik had simply to find the equivalent form of blackmail to keep Emily in check.

"Tell me, mademoiselle, does Monsieur le Comte approve of your plan to murder his childhood best friend, or did you contrive that clever little plan yourself?"

A growl ripped through Emily's throat. "My 'usband 'as nothing to do with this. Leave 'im out of it."

Now it was Erik's turn to let out a snort of laughter. "Husband? Still keeping up that delusion of grandeur, are we?"

"_Fuck_ you," she spat. "For your bloody information, we were married this afternoon."

"And why in the world would de Chagny do that?"

"Because 'e _loves_ me, you insufferable arse!" Emily's voice had risen nearly an octave. He was getting warmer.

"Does he?" asked Erik in the same airy tone he might have used to inquire about the weather. "How curious. Do explain to me, then, _Comtesse_, what on earth you are doing in the cellars of an opera house when you could be celebrating your wedding night back at the de Chagny estate?"

_Bullseye_. Emily's breath slammed out of her lungs as if she'd been kicked squarely in the chest. It took her several seconds to recover her wits, and still she could only respond with, "Mind your own business!" To her credit, her voice only broke a little.

Erik made a scornful noise. "Trouble in paradise already? My, Comtesse, that didn't take you long—"

"Keep talkin', Erik. Just try me!" He could almost feel Emily's pulse rising furiously beneath the dagger. "You'll find a bullet through that pretty curly 'ead of 'ers before your fingers can even tighten on the knife."

"That would be a very unwise decision, Comtesse." His voice was completely calm, but laced with a deadly undercurrent. Evidently he struck the correct chord, for an involuntary tremor shimmied up his foe's spine. "You would live only long enough to see your precious husband dismembered and burned alive before I sent you to join him in Hell."

Across the room, Christine's eyes reflected the terror that Erik had hoped to strike into Emily. "Erik, stop—"

Beneath the knife, Emily's throat constricted several times before she managed to choke out, "I – I already told you, 'e 'as nothing to do with this!"

"I never doubted de Chagny's innocence in this matter," Erik conceded. "As I recall, he and Christine parted on amicable terms. I highly doubt he has procured any reason since then to wish her dead. It would be terribly unfortunate if I was forced to—"

A loud clanging noise interrupted him mid-sentence, indicating a new presence on the lake. Confused frowns marred both Erik and Christine's faces as their eyes met. The same thought seemed to occur to them simultaneously: _Nadir? Giry?_ Their friends weren't due for a visit until tomorrow afternoon. Then again, it certainly wouldn't be out of the ordinary for them to stop by unexpectedly and check in on the new parents. Irritation melted quickly into alarm as Erik realized the very real danger they were walking into. The daroga would be armed and helpful, but Giry could easily become yet another bartering point for Emily. Either way, his friends' meddlesome nature could wind up getting them killed.

Although Emily didn't appear to know the exact meaning of the bell's toll, she seemed to get the gist as she followed Erik and Christine's gazes to the curtain. All three of them waited in tense silence, straining their ears for the approaching visitor.

Erik's eyes narrowed to emerald slits. His heightened auditory senses caught the sounds off the lake long before the women could hear them. The newcomer was splashing through the catacombs with great speed, hurdling directly towards them. Of this much Erik was immediately certain: it was neither Nadir nor Giry. Both of his friends knew the tunnels of the fifth cellar almost as well as he did. They would take the southeastern passage around the lake if the boat wasn't docked on the Rue Scribe side. Still, whoever it was, they were heading through the catacombs with definite purpose. They knew where they were going. And that could only mean…

The tip of the dagger dug just far enough into Emily's flesh to draw a warm trickle of blood. Snarling, Erik brought his lips within a centimeter of her ear. "You failed to mention an accomplice, Madame."

"That's cause I ain't got one," she snarled right back. "If I did, you'd be dead."

Although Erik knew her to be a capable liar, he sensed that Emily's surprise at the new presence was genuine. She appeared to have no more clue about who was sloshing through the lake toward them than he or Christine did. Rather than settling his nerves, however, this only set him more on edge.

_Someone who had been down here before… someone desperate enough to trudge through the lake in a hurry…_

The answer was so obvious that Erik could have kicked himself for not guessing it sooner. The women were slower to catch on. While Emily held perfectly still, listening, Christine's eyes were wide and confused.

Startling everyone, Erik called out, "Through the red curtain to your right, Monsieur le Comte." Realization dawned on both women at the same time. As sopping footfalls approached the curtain, their voices rose in unison.

"Raoul, _go_, it's not safe—"

"Raoul, you 'ave no business 'ere! Go back 'ome!"

He ignored them both, the gallant fool, and charged through the curtain with a sword at the ready. Had the situation not been so dire, Erik might have laughed at the expression on the boy's face. The young nobleman looked much the same as he had the last time he'd staggered down into the fifth cellar: drenched in lake water and sweat, wild-eyed and perfectly helpless. After an initial moment of shock, Raoul thrust his sword first at Erik, and then at Emily, as if unsure which of them was the greater threat.

At last, the boy's incredulous gaze settled on Christine. "What-" he panted. "What is going on here?"

"Raoul…" Emily began frantically.

Christine whispered, "Please, just go." Her brown eyes were flooded with pain.

Her pleas fell on deaf ears. Raoul's gaze had already fallen upon the vial of poison that lay shattered at her feet. Furious, he wheeled about to face Emily.

"You tried to poison her?" His voice gained volume with every word until he was shouting. With one defiant step, he positioned himself protectively between Christine and the mouth of the gun. "Christ, Emily! What were you _thinking_?!"

Emily was trembling violently in Erik's grasp. "You know d-damned well what I was thinking, Raoul. Damned well."

"No." The comte tilted his head back and thrust his arms out. "No, that's just it, Emily. I don't know. I don't understand." A hollow noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob choked past his lips as he closed the distance between them. Tears mingled with the sweat on his face, and he shook his head back and forth. "I don't understand. One moment you are the kindest, most compassionate woman I've ever known, and the next… the next you are trying to murder my best friend or my… my _brother_ and I…" A sob hitched in his chest, and for a moment it seemed he couldn't breathe. Then, finally, he gasped for air, and shook his head desperately. "Who _are_ you?"

Emily seemed to consider her words for several moments before answering brokenly, "I am an orphan and a pr-prostitute. I am a woman who is in love with a man who can n-never love 'er back so long as – as _that_ bitch walks the earth!" She gestured with the pistol in Christine's direction. "I'm not Christine, Raoul! I'm not Christine."

"I never asked you to be." Her husband passed a shaking hand over his face. "I never asked for any of this!"

"Well maybe I should 'ave left you to drown then. Is that what you're sayin'?"

"Maybe," he responded wearily with yet another shake of his head. "Maybe it would have been better if I'd died that day."

Erik was certain, in that moment, that it would have been less painful for the lovesick British woman if he had taken the dagger and run it straight through her heart. As it was, she was going to impale herself on the blade if she didn't stop shaking so hard. Each time she jerked with a sob, a fresh dribble of blood seeped down her neck.

In the meantime, little Claire, who had lain quiet and forgotten in the crook of her mother's arm, began to arch her back and turn her face towards the warmth of Christine's breast. She was pacified by her mother's scent for a moment or two before the beginnings of a whimper bubbled in her chest. Christine's eyes flew wide as she frantically patted the baby's back, trying to keep her quiet. It was no use; the child only understood that she was hungry, and that nourishment had not been immediately presented to her. Claire's whimpers escalated to cries, and threatened to become screams if she was not satisfied quickly.

Christine eyed the pistol that trembled in Emily's grasp with blatant terror. "Raoul, would you please take the baby to Erik's room?"

"No," Emily snarled between sobs. "No one leaves this room!"

Her husband wheeled on her, eyes blazing. "An innocent _child_, Emily? An infant? Would you leave Cedric in the line of fire?!"

Erik pounced on that train of thought, throwing his voice into Emily's ear so that only she could hear it. "Ah, Cedric… is that the name of your darling little one? Perhaps I shall have to pay _him_ a visit as well."

Drawing in a sharp breath through her nose, Emily stiffened. "V-very well. Take the child, then."

Raoul bent down to tenderly accept the flailing bundle into his arms. Both parents watched with bated breath and pounding hearts as he carried the little one safely out of the room. Christine hugged herself tightly as the baby's screams grew frantic, as if each cry was causing the young mother physical pain. Between his daughter's cries and the look on his beloved's face, Erik was slipping, slowly but surely, toward madness. His fingers burned with the need to spill the whore's blood and be done with it. By now her aim was wildly unsteady. Perhaps if he pulled her head backwards as he cut, she would shoot high, and the bullet would lodge harmlessly in the stone wall.

As usual, de Chagny's extraordinarily bad timing interrupted Erik's plan right on the cusp of victory. He bottled as much of his annoyance as he could. After all, the boy had just ferried his daughter to safety.

All of the scorching emotion that had burned out of the boy's face had dissipated by the time he re-entered the Louis-Philippe room. He seemed to have aged ten years in as many minutes. Dark circles hung under his eyes, and he looked completely exhausted as he turned his gaze to his wife.

"Put the gun down, Em," he said quietly. "Your quarrel is with me, not Christine."

Rather than sparking the typical indignation or scathing comeback that Erik had come to expect from the young British woman, the boy's soft plea only made Emily cry harder. By this point, the sobs left her in breathless, soundless shudders, punctuated by gasps for air. To everyone's surprise, she did as she was told, and gradually lowered the gun from Christine's head.

Instead, Emily pointed the mouth of the pistol at her own temple.

The boy lunged forward, one hand held up in front of him. "No! Emily, give the gun to me. You don't want to do this."

Slowly, Emily managed to control her breathing enough to force out words. "What I want? What I want… All I've ever wanted was for you to look at me the same way you look at 'er." A single, shuddering sob forced its way past her lips. "I think we both know that will never 'appen, will it?"

Pleading was written into every line of Raoul's face. "Emily. Hand me the gun."

A fresh stream of tears slipped down her face. "It was such a pretty fairytale, while it lasted," she breathed. "My 'andsome prince, and our beautiful son."

"Our beautiful son needs a mother," the boy choked, his own eyes filling with desperate tears. "Emily, please…"

"You'll take care of 'im, won't you?" she continued, closing her eyes lightly as if picturing her tiny son. "My sweet Cedric."

Inching closer to her, Raoul insisted, "We both will. Emily, I…" He looked as if he wanted so badly to finish the sentence, but his lungs failed him. Helpless tears slid down his cheeks as his voice trailed off into silence.

Emily's lip trembled, and she tried to smile. "I love you," she finished.

With a deafening crack, her lifeless body crumpled to the floor.

* * *

**A/N: -is very saddened- **

**By the way, you can all bow and scrape and tearfully thank Mominator for sparing you the ORIGINAL ending to this chapter. Let's just say that the person I intended to fall dead was not Emily.**

**Three chapters left to go, my loves. We'll end on a nice, tidy 75 chapters (including the epilogue).  
**


	73. Aftermath

**A/N: Another long one, folks… quite a few loose ends to tie up in these final 3 chapters.**

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* * *

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Temporary paralysis froze Christine where she sat – knees to her chest, back pressed up against the wall, and eyes trained in horror upon the growing pool of blood beneath Emily's shattered skull. As the putrid scent of death crept over the room, her gut gave a terrible wrench, and suddenly she doubled over and heaved the contents of her stomach onto the floor. In a flash, Erik was at her side, but she held up a hand in warning to stay back. At the moment, she couldn't handle the sight of Emily's blood splattered across his chest.

Desperate to redirect her attention from the unbearable sight and smell of death, Christine shifted her gaze to Raoul. He, too, seemed to be in shock, completely oblivious to the flurry of motion on the opposite side of the room. His ocean blue eyes were glassy… lost. For a moment she considered calling out his name, but stilled her tongue as he sank to his knees beside his wife's corpse. Slowly, he reached out a shaking hand to stroke Emily's matted curls. Christine could almost see the realization dawn upon his face as he withdrew his hand and found it soaked in blood. In one abrupt movement he staggered to his feet, but quickly lost his balance. He backpedaled on unsteady legs until he crashed into the wall behind him.

"No," he choked, thrashing his head back and forth in disbelief. "No…"

"Raoul!" cried Christine, trying to scramble back to her own feet and run to comfort him. A large hand suddenly hovered at her collarbone, holding her in place. Frowning, she looked up at Erik. She was surprised to see – pity? sympathy? – smoldering in his green eyes, rather than the unbridled rage that she had expected to find. He shook his head at her once, and then directed his voice to her left ear, for her hearing alone.

"Give him a moment alone to grieve. The time for comfort will come soon enough."

Although she knew in her heart that Erik was right, it nearly killed Christine to see her best friend crumple to the floor in a sobbing heap while she stood off to the side, doing nothing. She would have happily downed that entire vial of poison to spare sweet, gentle Raoul this unbearable pain. Christine ached to hold him, to comfort him, to do _something _to help.

Fortunately, Erik always seemed to know what she needed before she did. Letting his breath out in a great sigh, he released his hold on her. Once again directing his voice for her ears only, he murmured, "The first thing he will need is to change into a set of clean, dry clothes." Though Erik was behaving himself, Christine could almost hear the unspoken implication behind his words: _The boy was a damned fool to have crossed the lake in such frigid weather._ Instead, her beloved continued helpfully, "Why don't you tend to Claire, and then fetch a pair of trousers and a warm shirt from my wardrobe?"

Gratitude flooded Christine's troubled soul, and she shot him a quick, appreciative glance before hurrying off to do as she was told.

The simple act of walking across the main room proved to be a much more arduous task than she expected. The pains of childbirth still clamped her lower abdomen, only worsened by the fact that she had just thrown up. She was shaking terribly by the time she reached Erik's room.

Her heart nearly stopped as she laid eyes on her baby. Claire had flailed her blankets off, and was lying bare and shivering in the dark room. Immediately forgetting her own pain, Christine all but flew across the room and gathered the screaming child into her arms. The baby's skin was cold and clammy, and Christine became frantic as her trembling fingers fumbled with the buttons to her nightgown.

"I'm sorry, baby," she whimpered, "Mama is so, so sorry…"

With Christine's inexperience at breastfeeding, it took several painful tries for her to get the hungry baby to latch on correctly. Only once Claire was nursing eagerly, her tiny body steadily gaining warmth from being pressed to her mother's flesh, did Christine finally manage to take a deep breath to steady herself. It would not help anyone if she fell to pieces, she told herself firmly. She had to be strong, for Claire's sake, and for Raoul's. After dragging them through this living nightmare, she owed them that much.

As soon as Claire had drunk her fill, Christine shifted the baby to her shoulder and climbed to her feet. Thrumming gentle, percussive pats on the infant's back, she crossed the room to Erik's wardrobe and kneed the wooden doors open. She fingered through the stacks of folded clean clothes, identifying the garments by touch, as it was too dark to make out distinct colors or shapes. At last she settled on a pair of wool pants and a long-sleeved cotton tunic. Tucking them under her free arm, she hurried back towards the Louis-Philippe room as fast as her aching body would take her.

With all that had taken place in the course of the past twenty-four hours, nothing should have surprised Christine any more. Still, the sight that greeted her beyond the red velvet curtain was almost enough to make her drop the baby in shock.

At first, it looked as if Erik had Raoul pinned to the wall by the throat. A shout of protest rose in her throat, but as Christine staggered a few steps toward them she realized that Erik appeared to be… _comforting_ the young man. His hand was not, in fact, at Raoul's neck, but clasped firmly on the boy's shoulder. The masked man spoke in a hushed tone. Although Christine could not make out individual words, she guessed that he was not hissing out death threats, as she'd initially thought. After a moment, Erik fell silent, watching the boy carefully for a response. Finally, Raoul released his breath in a shaky gust and nodded. Only then did Erik lift his gaze to Christine, acknowledging her presence with a quirked eyebrow.

Unfurling his long fingers, he said, "Ah, good, those will do nicely." Christine stared dumbly at his outstretched hand for a moment before passing him the clothes, which he, in turn, placed in Raoul's lap. Rising gracefully to his feet, Erik told the boy, "While I applaud you for braving those icy waters, I'd highly suggest you discard those wet clothes before you procure another critical bout of pneumonia. Fate may not be so kind a second time around." He waited for a response from the boy, and when he got none, he simply shrugged and continued, "We will allow you a moment of privacy to change, and then I'm sure Christine would like to have a word with you." He threw her a questioning glance, and she nodded mutely. Stepping forward, he took her by the arm and began to lead her back toward the curtain. Still slightly dazed, Christine could do nothing but follow.

Out in the main room, Erik guided Christine to a chair, which she settled into obediently. Sometime in the past few minutes, Claire had fallen fast asleep on her mother's shoulder. Christine began to sway in a subconscious, primitive movement as she shifted the baby down to her chest. When she looked up again, Erik was already across the room, digging through the pantry for God-knows-what.

"Erik," she called softly. His masked face appeared around the stone corner. "Come here and talk to me."

He regarded her with an unreadable expression for a moment before slowly crossing the room. Christine noted, with a twinge of exasperation, that he stayed well out of arm's reach, and that he carefully avoided eye contact.

Narrowing her eyes acutely, she asked, "What were you saying to him before I walked in?"

Although Erik's face remained stoic as ever, Christine knew him well enough to catch the subtle flicker in his eyes. Waving a hand dismissively, he answered, "Oh, the typical sentimental blather. Generic comforts. Nothing of consequence." With a glance back at the pantry, he sidestepped, "I thought we still had half a bottle of brandy. Do you know where it might be?"

"Stop!" said Christine sharply. "Don't do this, Erik. Don't shut me out." When he continued to look away from her, she added threateningly, "If you won't tell me, I'm sure I can get it out of Raoul…"

That, at least, seemed to catch his attention. Stormy green eyes snapped up to stubborn brown ones, and after a lengthy standoff, Erik sighed in defeat.

"He seems to be under the impression that tonight's attack was his fault." Christine opened her mouth to protest, but Erik swiftly cut her off. "Supposedly, he and Emily had a heated argument earlier this evening – involving you. Before you ask, I wasn't able to extract any details. I honestly don't think I care to know." Shutting her mouth again, Christine nodded. That would be a question for Raoul, then. Erik continued, "I simply reminded him that Emily was a thinking adult, and that the choice to opt for violence was hers alone. He kept prattling on about suicide and Hell and all sorts of religious consequences for which I had no patience. But what I did offer was a form of more… earthly counsel. If the boy were to return with a bullet through his wife's head, there would be far too many questions, not to mention a lengthy police investigation. He and I eventually agreed that it would simply be best for him to lie and say that he was unable to find Madame la Comtesse after she stole away into the night. While he files a missing person report with the gendarmes, I will dispose of the body. Then you and I will leave for Perros first thing in the morning."

A cold shudder worked its way down Christine's spine at the thought of what exactly "disposing" of the corpse might entail. With this new series of revelations, her thoughts were racing to keep up with her battling emotions. She wasn't entirely sure whether to feel disturbed, or thankful, or agitated, or depressed, or concerned, or some dizzying combination of all of them.

Pressing her free hand to her forehead, Christine just barely managed to organize her thoughts enough to say, "P-Perros? But I thought you said—"

"Monsieur O'Reilly is setting out at first light to personally oversee the rest of the repairs," Erik clarified. "As promised, the house will be ready by Sunday. In the meantime, we can stay at the Setting Sun Inn." He cast a glance in the direction of the Louis-Philippe room, and his expression soured. "I figured after tonight…"

"No, you're right," Christine confirmed, following his gaze and shivering again. "I can't – I can't stay in that room." Glancing back at Erik, she said, "But it's not even 9. What will we do tonight?"

Erik pondered that for a moment. "I'm sure the ladies Giry would be happy to take you and the child for the evening." The second half of the thought remained unspoken, but mutually understood nonetheless: _while I get rid of Emily's remains._ Oddly enough, Christine was certain she'd have more nightmares about that than the actual suicide itself.

Sensing her unease, Erik cleared his throat and began to back away, watching for any sign of protest from Christine. When she remained silent and pensive, he turned and began to rummage through the pantry again. At last he found the bottle of brandy he'd been looking for, and set it on the stone counter along with three stout glasses. He poured two stiff drinks, and glanced at Christine questioningly with the bottle poised over the third glass. She shook her head, and he corked the bottle again indifferently. It took Erik only one large swallow to down the amber liquid. He cracked his neck and blinked his watering eyes as he set the empty glass back down on the counter. A heavy silence hung between them for several minutes before Christine finally stirred out of her reverie.

Rising with a wince at the stiffness in her muscles, Christine stepped over to Erik and placed the sleeping baby in his arms. "I'm sure he's changed by now," she murmured. Stalling for a few moments, she stroked her daughter's downy hair and fidgeted with the end of the soft blanket. Much as she longed to comfort her longtime friend in his hour of need, she was in no hurry to return to that room, where Emily's broken, bleeding body still lay crumpled on the floor.

Erik watched her knowingly for a while, then bent to place a soft kiss on her forehead. "Tell him to come out here. I'll just…" His green eyes swept over the room, and suddenly an idea seemed to occur to him. "I have a present for you, up in the storage cellars. Perhaps Claire and I should go retrieve it."

Christine breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you," she whispered. Pulling back just far enough to meet his eyes, she gripped his forearms to stress her meaning. "For everything. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't—"

He silenced her with his lips. Just as soon as Christine had melted into his familiar kiss, however, he pulled back and threw a pointed glance at the Louis-Philippe room. "Your friend the Comte is waiting for you," he murmured. For a fleeting second Christine saw doubt blitz through his green eyes, but then it was gone, tucked away for her benefit.

Forcing a smile, she repeated "_Friend_" with great emphasis. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw Erik's muscles relax slightly as he disappeared into the darkness.

The grotto was deceptively peaceful in the few moments that Christine stood there alone, staring at the lake. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend that all of this had been nothing but a bad dream. She could almost forget the coppery stench of blood, the violent crack of a bullet ripping through flesh and bone, and the look of utter hopelessness in Emily's brown eyes just moments before they glassed over forever.

"_I am an orphan and a pr-prostitute. I am a woman who is in love with a man who can n-never love 'er back so long as – as that bitch walks the earth! I'm not Christine, Raoul! I'm not Christine."_

A painful, leaden pool of guilt formed in Christine's abdomen, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the memory. The thought suddenly occurred to her that she was probably the very last person on earth that Raoul wanted to talk to right now. How could she possibly expect to comfort him over a death that she had unwittingly caused?

Soon enough, though, the pressing silence became unbearable. Unworthy as she felt, Christine was Raoul's best friend. Whenever she had needed a shoulder to cry on, he had always been there for her. What kind of person would she have been, if she refused him the same comfort?

Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, she opened her eyes and strode over to the curtain.

"Raoul?" she called gently.

No response.

Christine's eyelashes fluttered shut, and she pressed her forehead to the cool stone wall. "I understand if you never wish to speak to me again," she murmured, feeling her heart break. "But you must understand that I never wanted any of this. If I had only known, I—"

The curtain parted. "Christine." Raoul's voice was hoarse and shredded beyond recognition.

The look on his handsome face was enough to shatter the remains of Christine's composure. She launched herself desperately into his arms, needing to hold him as much as he needed to be held. One of her hands latched around his waist while the other tangled in his hair, bringing his head down to her shoulder. All at once Raoul's weight seemed to give out beneath him and, unable to hold him up, Christine simply sank with him to the floor.

"I'm sorry," she breathed into his neck. "I'm so, so sorry…"

He pulled gently from her embrace and cupped her face with his fingertips. Glaring at her through his tears, he warned, "Don't. Don't you… dare… blame yours-self."

Christine took his hands from her cheeks and kissed them. "Oh Raoul," she sighed. "You cannot possibly think to console _me_ at a time like this."

"None of this is your fault. It's mine." Raoul stared past her, his eyes unfocused and unseeing. With agonizing slowness, a single tear slid down his handsome cheek. "It would have taken three words." He drew in a pained breath. "Three words to draw her back from Hell's gates. Three words to save her."

Shaking her head sadly, Christine wiped the tear from his chin. "She would have known it was a lie."

"Then I should have at least been able to lie for her. I should have been able to say something… anything. She saved my life, and all I could do was stand there." His face twisted, and he let out a sob. "A part of me _wanted_ her to pull that trigger. And I will burn in Hell beside her because of it!"

* * *

It must have been an hour that she sat with him, stroking Raoul's hair and rocking him like a child. Several times Christine opened her mouth to try to comfort him, only to second-guess herself and close it again. No words, however eloquent, seemed capable of drawing the poisonous self-loathing from those beautiful blue eyes. To see such darkness in Raoul was foreign and frightening to her. This was her childhood sweetheart, her protector, her rock. He was crumbling in her hands and Christine had no idea how to stop it. The best she could do was to hold him tight, and pray.

Erik had been watching them silently for some time now. Christine could feel the heat of his gaze on her back, almost daring her to overstep the boundary between friend and lover. His dark magnetism was palpable. For the second time in her life Christine felt her heart being ripped, slowly and torturously, in half. On the one hand, she was mentally and emotionally spent, and she wanted nothing more than to take shelter in her masked lover's arms. On the other hand, Raoul needed her desperately. Her love for him was the love of a sister for a brother, she knew that now. But it was love nonetheless, and she could not abandon him to bear his crushing sorrow alone.

At long last, Raoul broke the terrible silence. "I have a son." His voice had steadied, but held no less sorrow than it had an hour ago. Reluctantly, he pulled away from Christine's embrace. "Emily gave me a son. I don't know how to… I can't… do this alone." Looking helplessly into her eyes, he begged for an answer that she could not give. "What am I going to do, Christine?"

She spoke without thinking, too lost in his ocean-blue eyes to care for practicality. "Come with us."

An incredulous frown crossed his face. "What?"

"To Perros," Christine amended, but that didn't seem to clear up the issue at all. "To the house by the sea. You remember the guest bedroom, in the attic with those beautiful paintings we used to love? You and your son could stay there."

Raoul's features softened. "Christine…"

"You wouldn't need to hire a wet nurse, because I could feed both babies. You could bring the nursery set, the birch wood one we picked out together. And I could make breakfast for everyone in the morning, and in the evening Erik would play the fiddle while…"

"While we read to each other the dark stories of the north?" Raoul supplied with a sad smile.

"Yes! Oh Raoul, it would be perfect. My only fear about leaving Paris was that I'd never get to see you again, but if you came with us, I could have the love of my life and my best friend all at the same time, and—"

His fingertip came to rest at the bow of her lip. For a single breathless moment, Christine thought he might kiss her. Her eyes flew wide, silently begging him not to. Erik had been uncharacteristically gracious while she comforted her former husband, but his patience extended only so far.

Fortunately, Raoul let his finger slip from her mouth, and he simply eyed her with heartbreaking sadness. "Little Lotte, your kindness knows no bounds. If I could teach my heart your generosity, I would gladly share you with… with… him." The struggle to fight back an insult was visible on the young man's face. At once Christine realized what a fanciful notion her dream had truly been. The very thought of Raoul and Erik cohabitating under one roof was… absurd, to say the least. Her cheeks burned with humiliation, but Raoul tipped her chin up, forcing him to look at him. Understanding was reflected in his ocean blue eyes. He knew the good intent behind her offer.

"You are strong, Christine. So much stronger than I ever gave you credit for. When the world crumbled beneath you, somehow, you… you managed to gather up the pieces, and reshape them into something beautiful." He ran a finger tenderly down her cheek, and sighed. "If I can recover from this with half the grace that you have shown, I will count myself a very fortunate man indeed."

Sweeping a lock of damp blonde hair from his face, Christine assured him, "You will. If anyone can come back from this, it's you. Tragedy leaves no option but to move forward, or be crushed by it. The last I checked," she said with a gentle smile, "_Defeat_ was not in your vocabulary."

"No. Though it appeared to have been in Emily's."

Firmly, Christine took his face in her hands. "That's precisely what I'm talking about. Emily allowed her bitterness and despair to consume her. In the end, it drove her mad." Shaking her head despondently, she dropped her hands into her lap. "In spite of everything, I cannot bring myself to feel anything but pity for her… because I remember that feeling. There was a moment when I huddled on a street corner in the rain, watching the passing carriages and thinking how easy it would be to throw myself beneath the wheels and still my breaking heart once and for all." An involuntary shudder wracked her small frame at the memory. Turning her eyes up to Raoul's astonished face, she said sadly, "I am _not_ strong, Raoul. I have never been strong. Had it not been for Erik, I would have…" she trailed off into silence, swallowing hard. "I would have been no better off than Emily."

Raoul stared at her in disbelief for several long moments until she took his hands and pressed them to her heart. "The reason I survived," she whispered, "Was because I found a reason for my heart to keep beating." Brown eyes stared deeply into blue, as if urging him to see straight down to her soul. "And you have the most legitimate reason of all."

Blinking back tears, Raoul tried to smile. "My son."

"Your son."

* * *

With a heavy heart, Christine watched the silhouette turn out of Rue Scribe and ride off into the snowy night. Raoul glanced over his shoulder just once, and she smiled bravely and waved to him with her free hand, then raised Claire's tiny fist and waved for her too.

Only once his horse rounded the corner out of sight did Christine allow her composure to crumple. Behind her, Erik was loading the last of her overnight essentials into César's saddlebag. At the first whimper of her distress, however, he dropped what he was doing and grabbed her just before she collapsed to the snow-dusted ground.

Somehow, impossibly, she had managed to keep her tears at bay all night. They had built quietly over the past few hours, pushed down time and again as necessity forced her to be strong. In all her terror, even in the face of death, she had put on a brave face for the sake of those who needed her. Now that there was no need for pretense, her bottled emotions finally overflowed in a great, searing gush. She barely heard Erik's words of comfort as he lifted her into his arms.

"It's over, love. Shh, shh. It's over now."

She buried her face in his neck, scorching tears dripping from her cheeks and down his collarbone. Her sobs were frantic, violent. With each gasp she drew bitterly cold air into her lungs, and her sides lanced with shooting pain. Vaguely she was aware that Erik was carrying her somewhere, but she didn't take any real note of it until suddenly his warmth was gone.

"Sit up straight in the saddle, Christine," he commanded softly, "Hold Claire tightly."

She did as she was told, and was rewarded when a moment later Erik swung up behind her. He gently tucked her head under his chin before reaching around her to take up the reins. Whimpering, Christine closed her eyes on stinging tears. Suddenly the horse was moving beneath her, and she knew nothing more.

* * *

It could have been hours just as easily as minutes before Erik eased César to a halt. Although Christine had cried herself out, she still sniffled every once in a while and wiped her face on Erik's collar. Her eyelids were impossibly heavy, and her core muscles were so exhausted that even sitting up alone was difficult the second time Erik asked it of her. She all but tumbled off of the stallion's back and into her fiancé's arms when he stretched up his hands for her. Claire was still soundly asleep, thank God, and tucked tightly to her mother's breast.

The harsh glare of a streetlamp caused Christine to squint and turn her face once more into the haven of Erik's neck. He was moving again – slowly, so as not to disturb her – but the realization of where he'd taken her did not hit Christine until a familiar voice broke through the foggy haze of her mind.

"Mon—Monsieur Erik?"

_Meg? _The thought was far away, and kept slipping through Christine's fingers as she tried to grasp it. She was tired… so tired…

Christine heard the rustle of skirts and the click of a door. Suddenly golden light poured around them, and she was warm. She listened to voices as if hearing them in a dream.

_Should never have left her… Emily tried to… poison quick enough to stop the heart… dagger to her throat… de Chagny came after her… child to safety… brought the pistol… shot herself… no, back at home now… gendarmes would have suspected… will take care of it myself… back no later than four…_

A cry of protest died in Christine's throat as Erik's warmth was pulled from her again, but this time she was laid into the softest bed she could ever remember feeling. A blanket was draped across her, and a careworn hand brushed her wet cheek. The voice of the only mother she had ever known said, "Sleep, Christine. You and your child are safe now."

She didn't need to be told twice.

* * *

**A/N: Poor Christine. And poor Raoul. And poor, cold Claire! And major kudos to Erik for being the pillar of strength for all of them – **_**including**_** his former worst enemy, I might add. He gets major brownie points for that.**

**Thanks so much to those who continue to leave reviews, you know how much I love 'em! :)**


	74. Closure

**A/N: This chapter is ****intense**_**, **_**and more than a little dark, but we'll finally get some resolution to the whole mess. Read on, my darlings... hopefully it's worth the wait!**

**P.S. Morgan, happy birthday! Sorry it's a few days late, but hey, it's still your birthday **_**week**_**, right?**

* * *

Although he dozed on and off, the daroga had spent the majority of the evening in that hazy place somewhere between waking and sleeping. Every once in a while he would glance at the clock, only to wilt in disappointment when he saw how little time had actually passed. Exhausted as he was, retiring to bed seemed like a false promise. He knew better than to expect that he would be getting any sort of satisfying sleep tonight.

Just after eleven, he put a kettle of strong tea on. For several minutes he simply stared at the bubbles forming at the bottom of the pot. His eyes were glazed, his mind humming vaguely through half-formed memories of the day. It took a moment for him to draw the distinction between daydream and reality when his senses picked up the muted clatter of hoofbeats on snow. Nadir shook his head once to clear it, then stole yet another glance at the clock.

Quarter past eleven.

Sighing deeply, he shuffled over to the front door and unlocked the deadbolt. Without bothering to look through the curtains, he dropped heavily into his favorite armchair and waited.

Nadir counted exactly five seconds from the time the horse's hooves stamped to a halt until the door flew open. Before he could even open his mouth to bite out a practiced, witty remark, the door slammed shut again, and the shadow that was Erik disappeared into the back hall. Raising his eyebrows in amusement, Nadir let his chin rest in his cupped hand as he waited for the shouting to commence.

From the bedroom, he could make out the sounds of rustled bedding, as if Erik had just ripped the covers off of what he had presumed to be Nadir. There was a beat of perfect silence. But then, instead of the outraged growl the daroga had been anticipating, there came such an unexpected sound that the Persian was quite sure his sleep-deprived mind must have made it up.

"Nadir?" Erik's voice was unrecognizable. It was... panicked. Terrified. It was the tone of a very young child, calling out to a parent as he woke from a nightmare.

Any playful sarcasm waiting on the daroga's tongue vanished into thin air, as did the last remnants of his exhaustion. He had been anticipating the late-night interlude all evening, complete with the predictable door slam, misdirected blame, ranting, pacing, denial, and eventual admission that Nadir was right, as usual. He'd prepared for several potential "catastrophic" events that might have sent Erik racing over in a blind panic in the middle of the night: perhaps the baby was colicky, and the parents were sure something was wrong with her; or perhaps the fact that Christine was still bleeding (and would be for weeks) had convinced Erik she was hemorrhaging to death; or perhaps the baby was afflicted with a simple case of hiccups, and her overreacting father was sure she had a lung abnormality. Nadir had once been a terrified, incompetent-feeling new father, too, and so he had told himself he would be gentle with Erik, no matter how ridiculous and unfounded his panic was.

But something about the tone of Erik's voice struck Nadir straight to his bones. Instinctively, he understood that this was no trivial matter; something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

Not trusting himself to stand in the face of whatever he was about to hear, he simply called out, "I'm here."

Normally graceful footfalls staggered forward, and Erik reappeared around the corner. His silhouette was backlit by the dim light from the kitchen, making it difficult to make out any more than his bone-white mask. Nadir fumbled for a match in the end table drawer next to him and lit the table lamp. Squinting in the sudden light, he tried to get a read on the man before him. Erik's visible features were blank, but his eyes burned. For a moment, Nadir waited to see if Erik would be the first to speak. When he didn't, the Persian swallowed, and braced himself for an answer he knew he would not like.

"What's wrong?"

Something stirred behind Erik's green eyes, but otherwise he remained completely motionless. When he spoke, his voice was flat. "Emily is dead."

The Persian forgot to breathe. Images of the beautiful young woman spun through his head, intermixed with snippets of conversation, flashes of raw emotion. He remembered fiery brown eyes and a serious face. He remembered the way she looked at Raoul, the tenderness with which she stroked his cheek while he slept. There was a quiet desperation to everything she did, as if she were waiting for the world to collapse beneath her feet at any given moment. She lived passionately and recklessly, fueled only by her impossible love. In the brief time Nadir had known her, she reminded him, in many ways, of Erik.

And now she was dead.

"Allah be merciful," the Persian whispered.

Of all the emotions stirred up by this new revelation, anger and disappointment quickly bubbled to the forefront. He had thought Erik had changed. He had thought that, after all he'd been through, after becoming a _father_, that some sense of compassion and forgiveness might have been driven into Erik's thick, stubborn head! He'd had the audacity to hope that, in the face of new life and the possibility to start over and recreate himself, Erik might have actually been willing to put the past behind him, and bury his violent tendencies once and for all. Clearly, Nadir mused, he had placed far too much faith in his masked friend.

At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to take Erik by the collar and physically shake some sense into the man. Instead, he launched to his feet and began to pace, raking his nails painfully back across his head in an uncanny likeness of the man he was so aggravated with. "Erik, what were you possibly thinking? What have you _done_?"

There was a beat of stunned silence, and then Erik began to laugh. The sound only made the ire burn hotter in Nadir's veins, and he wheeled on his friend, furious. He opened his mouth to spew pure venom, but stopped as the sound of Erik's laugh changed.

He was hysterical.

He gasped for air as if his lungs had collapsed, and tears began to stream down his cheeks. His whole body began to spasm, and he leaned heavily against the wall before sliding to the floor.

"What... have I... done?" he panted, his eyes rolling wildly. "What have I _done_?"

Nadir froze, unsure of what to do. Part of him, still irate, wanted to alert the gendarmes that a psychotic killer was on the loose, and that he needed to be locked up for his own damned good. But the greater part of him was loyal to this wreck of a human being, even in his darkest and most dangerous hour. Staring down at the broken, trembling heap of a man, Nadir felt pity begin to trickle in where fury ebbed.

With a sigh of defeat, the Persian dropped to a crouch next to his friend. _One of these days, _he swore to himself, _one of these days, Erik, I really am going to give up on you._

Out loud, he said, "Calm down. _Breathe_." The daroga knew better than to reach out and touch Erik when he was in this state, so he tried instead to ground his friend with the tone of his voice.

The only thing it seemed to accomplish was that Erik stopped laughing. He twitched once and fell silent, curling in on himself. Tears soaked the visible side of his face and had left dark streaks on his mask. Assuming that Erik was finally asserting some self-control, the daroga nodded his approval.

"Good man. Now, explain to me, how was it that you even came in contact with–"

But Erik seemed not to hear him. Though the expression on his face was focused, his eyes were glazed. He began to shake profusely again, and clawed his fingernails into the carpet.

"Put it down," he rasped.

The Persian's brows knitted._ Morphine_, he thought with an internal groan.

"Erik," he said, more firmly than before, "Erik, look at me."

The masked man paid him no heed. Seizing and gnashing his teeth, he bit out, "No. _No!_ Christine! Don't. Don't drink it. Put it down. _Put it down!_"

As quickly as the episode had begun, it suddenly stopped. Erik's whole body went rigid, and then limp. For his part, Nadir could do nothing but look on in shock, waiting for something to happen. When Erik didn't move, panic overrode his basic instinct not to touch the masked man. Reaching out two fingers, he felt for a pulse at his friend's carotid artery.

Before the Persian even had time to cry out, Erik had him pinned to the floor by the neck. His green eyes were wild with bloodlust, and he drew hissing breaths through his clenched teeth.

"I'll kill you myself!" he rasped. "I will make you wish you were never born..."

Nadir could feel his windpipe being crushed. His vision spun, and he struggled desperately to keep a hold on consciousness. He gripped Erik's wrists and pulled with all his might, trying to relieve the pressure that was sapping his veins of precious oxygen. He managed to get one gasp's worth of air, and choked out, "ERIK! It's Nadir! Nadir!"

The edges of his vision swam, and just as he was about to succumb to the darkness pressing in around him, the pressure was suddenly gone. He turned onto his side, choking on the sudden influx of air. He drank in open mouthfuls, his sides searing from the effort. Somewhere behind him, he heard Erik panting just as severely, his breath ragged and forced.

Minutes ticked by before either of them dared speak.

"What... what happened?" Erik gasped, finally breaking the silence.

Slowly, the Persian pushed himself upright on a trembling arm. He scooted instinctively away from the masked man's form, even though he knew the worst was over. Swallowing hard, he answered, "I... I believe you were hallucinating. Reenacting the moment you killed her."

Erik seemed to be struggling to regain control of his own mind. He blinked hard, and shook his head several times. After a long moment of silence, he said more to himself than to the daroga, "I didn't... I didn't kill her."

The daroga frowned, unsure whether he could trust anything Erik was saying at this point. Not three minutes ago, the man had been trying to strangle the life out of him for no discernible reason at all. If he was lost in a morphine stupor, it could be hours before he would resurface with any sort of clarity. If not... then they were both in far worse trouble than Nadir cared to think about.

He chose his words very carefully, adopting the calm professionalism of the interrogator he had once been. "Start from the beginning, Erik. Tell me what happened when Madame Giry and I left you earlier this afternoon."

Erik slowly pulled himself into as compact a position as he could, tucking his arms and knees to his chest. Then, taking a deep, steadying breath, he explained everything.

* * *

The horses pinned their ears and tossed their heads in agitation, seeming to pick up instinctively on their riders' unease. Ever since Erik's traumatic episode at the apartment, the daroga had been watching him out of the corner of his eye, waiting for him to break down again at any given moment. This, in turn, only served to put Erik more on edge. Though their alliance was notably strained, together they managed to organize a plan to finish up whatever needed to be done in the fifth cellar, gather Christine and the baby, and be on a train by sunrise.

The first stop would undoubtedly be the most unpleasant for both of them. The two men visibly tensed as they approached Rue Scribe, but it wasn't until Nadir began to dismount his chestnut mare that Erik broke the awkward silence that had hung between them throughout the ride.

"If you choose to remain here, I will understand." Though Erik still would not turn to look at him, there was an unmistakable note of tenderness in his voice. "Your conscience is clear on the matter. I would not ask you to tarnish it on my account."

The daroga looked thoughtfully from Erik's silhouette to the crumbled brick wall leading down into the cellars. Although Erik had spared him the more graphic details in his account of the evening, Nadir had a fairly good idea of what sort of horrors he could expect to find in the Louis-Philippe room.

"I know," he said with a grim nod. And without another word, he swung down from the saddle and stepped bravely into darkness.

* * *

Throughout their years together, Nadir had due cause to question his best friend's sanity on more occasions than he could count. As they stepped out into the candlelit grotto, the Persian couldn't help but wonder if this was one of those times.

A pile of folded laundry sat in the corner where Madame Giry had stacked it earlier that morning. The typical clutter and half-finished pages of sheet music littered Erik's work area. Most of the candles were still lit and glowing warmly all around them. A glass of brandy sat, untouched, on the stone counter. Everything in Erik and Christine's home looked so perfectly... normal. For a fleeting moment, the daroga wondered whether or not the entire ordeal may have been a fabrication of Erik's stressed and sleep-deprived mind.

And then, a few steps further into the house, the stench of coppery blood hit him like a blow to the stomach. Nadir immediately clamped a hand over his nose and mouth, fighting a dry heave. He glanced over at Erik through watering eyes, and found, to his annoyance, that his masked friend seemed completely unperturbed by the putrid scent of death.

"Oh! How can you stand it?" the Persian moaned between his fingers.

Erik raised an eyebrow, but they both knew the question didn't require a response. He paused in the middle of the room with a sigh, placing his hands on his hips and surveying the area.

"Daroga, I think you will be of greatest use to me if you fill that small trunk there with personal affects that should not be left behind. Don't bother with anything that can be replaced. Just grab what you can while I take care of the Louis-Philippe room."

Nadir recognized the dismissal for what it was, but the Persian knew he would be of absolutely no use to his friend when it came to dealing with Emily's corpse; unfortunately, his stomach was not as strong as his resolve to help, and he feared he would only vomit and add to the mess. Reluctant as he was to let Erik out of his sight, there was far too much work to be done to stand and argue about it. With a nod, he grabbed the trunk that Erik had indicated and fled to the furthest corner of the house from the offending stench. He packed as quickly and efficiently as he could, starting with the keepsakes and mementos that he knew Erik and Christine treasured dearly: the programme from Christine's debut in _Hannibal_, a scrap of faded black ribbon, a child's drawing of a magnificent winged angel, a few leather-bound collections of music that they had used in their lessons, an audition flyer from their time in Rome, the jeweled collar that had once belonged to Erik's infernal cat (the daroga cursed under his breath and seriously considered confiscating this particular item), a warm woolen blanket that Meg Giry had knitted for the new baby...

For every sentimental item that Nadir tucked away into the trunk, he would cast a worried glance in the direction of the Louis-Philippe room. A shudder ran up his spine every time he allowed his mind to wander to what exactly Erik was doing behind the red curtain. Time and again he suppressed the urge to call out to his friend, just to be sure he was still conscious and functioning; he stopped himself only by reasoning that the task was stressful enough without the daroga's incessant reminders of the "incident" back at his apartment. He was just wary enough of his own unsettled stomach to keep away from the room, but nervous enough for Erik's sake that he could barely keep his eyes off of the ominous red curtain for any decent stretch of time.

When a sudden smashing sound came from the other room, the Persian was on his feet so quickly that his head spun.

"Erik?" Nadir called out. He sucked in a deep breath and held it, preparing to run to his friend's aid if there was no response...

Fortunately, the curtain parted a moment later, revealing Erik's scowl. "Everything is fine, daroga. I am nearly finished, so wrap up the last of the items and prepare to leave."

"But what –?"

The curtain swished shut before Nadir could inquire about the distinct smashing sound. Deciding it was probably better he didn't know, he did as he was told, tucking a few more small keepsakes into the trunk before shutting and latching it. No sooner had he finished than Erik reappeared, holding something glass in his hand. The daroga adjusted his spectacles and squinted, trying to get a better look at what the masked man was holding.

Once he realized what was going on, he gasped. "You can't seriously mean to –"

"Oh, but I do," Erik replied coldly. As he stepped backwards down the stairs, he splashed a trail of kerosene behind him. He made sure to coat the red curtain and all the drapes lining the stone walls as he passed them. The Persian could not suppress another gasp of pure shock when Erik began to douse all the furniture – even his beloved organ! – with the contents of a smashed table lamp. Once the last of the kerosene was used up, Erik grabbed the glass of brandy off of the counter – and the bottle from which it came – and proceeded to drench every last flammable surface of the house.

Swallowing twice to steady his voice, Nadir took his friend by the shirt sleeve, forcing him to stop. "Erik, there is no reason to take such extreme measures. Can't you just deposit the body in the lake and..." He trailed off at the look Erik was shooting him, and quickly released his sleeve. The memory of the last time he'd overstepped his boundaries was still painfully vivid in his mind.

With a grunt, Erik threw the empty brandy bottle across the room, and watched it shatter with grim satisfaction. Nadir winced, but remained silent.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, daroga." Green eyes flickered across the grotto, drinking in the sight of it for the last time. "Should de Chagny revoke his end of the bargain and lead the gendarmes directly to the site of the crime, they will find little more than ash and ruin, exactly as they left it on the night of _Don Juan_." He fell quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, the bitterness had left his voice. "This is the abode of a ghost, daroga. Tonight, I rejoin the world of the living."

They didn't stay to watch the house on the lake burn. Erik simply toppled the nearest candelabra, turned his back, and walked steadily up to the street without once looking over his shoulder. The desperate tension that had gripped him the entire evening seemed to have melted into a quiet certainty, and Nadir didn't dare question him again.

For his part, the daroga carried the trunk of precious keepsakes safely away from the fate that befell all of Erik's other exotic, endearingly quirky belongings. It hit him, as he strapped the trunk to his horse's saddle, just how extraordinary a task Erik had entrusted him with. In his two hands, he held the only surviving remnants of Erik's past that would be carried forth into the next chapter of his life. Nadir glanced over at his friend with this realization shining in his eyes, but Erik had already swung up onto his horse, and was waiting impatiently to ride back to Christine's arms. And so the daroga simply smiled, and tucked away the thought for another time.

They rode once again in silence, side by side, but the friction between them had dissipated into a calm understanding: the nightmare was over. The phantom was left to rest in his opera, leaving simply Erik – a lover, a father, a friend, and a man reborn.

* * *

**A/N: Ah, sweet closure. **

**I wouldn't dare say that life with Erik could ever be "normal," but he's managed to put many demons to rest in this chapter that had hindered him from moving in that general direction. He has a shot now to remake himself into the man he has always wanted to be. And in the next (and final) chapter, we'll get a good taste of that. :)**

**A note on the psychological aspects of this chapter: I specifically wanted to draw a parallel between Erik and Christine's coping responses to the major trauma they just underwent. For a while, they both managed to keep it together in the face of unspeakable terror. In the previous chapter we saw, from Christine's POV, how she managed to hold off her inevitable breakdown (in her case, complete mental shutdown/blackout) until Raoul turned the corner out of sight. And in this chapter, we see that Erik – who not only remained extraordinarily calm and supportive throughout that entire evening, but took care of Christine when she was no longer able to hold herself up – well, even he has his limits. He, too, managed to hold off his own breakdown (for him, a post-traumatic stress episode) until the needs of his family were met. They've both proven extreme bravery, but in their darkest and weakest moments, they are fortunate to be able to fall back into the arms of their best friends.**

**On a lighter note, you know the old saying... "A friend will help you move. A **_**good**_** friend will help you move a body." Pretty sure Nadir gets the BFF award of the year. ;)**

**One chapter to go, and we'll end on a happy note, I promise.**


	75. Epilogue

**A/N: Why so silent, good messieurs? Did you think that I had left you for good? Have you missed me, good messieurs? I have written you an epilogue!**

**Here, I make the final post:**

**CHAPTER 75!**

_TWENTY YEARS LATER_

Erik sat rigid and unmoving throughout the drive, watching the streets of Paris pass by his window. The rain gave the city lights a blurred, almost ethereal quality – it was like something out of a dream. A very old, very familiar dream…

A gloved hand came to rest on his thigh, breaking him from his reverie. He looked up to see his wife studying him with soft, sympathetic brown eyes.

"It's going to be fine," she assured him, even as she wrung the corner of a lace handkerchief between the thumb and forefinger of her opposite hand.

He tightened his mouth in what he hoped would pass for a smile, and placed his own hand on top of hers. "Of course."

They passed the remainder of the drive in silence, neither of them choosing to comment on the fact that the other's hand trembled in their own. When the cab pulled to a halt at Rue Scribe, Erik unfolded his black umbrella and stepped out into the rain, then turned to take his wife's hand and pull her safely out onto the curb. They huddled together for a moment, watching after the cab long after it had turned a corner and disappeared into the night.

At long last, Christine slid forward and wrapped her arms around him tightly. "Do you remember the day I first came back to this place? It was raining then, too."

"I remember." He kissed her temple. "You were soaked to the skin."

"Mm." She smiled, rubbing her palm in rhythmic circles up and down his back. After a long, pensive moment, she sighed. "We had so many fond memories of this place, Erik. It's silly of us to let that one night taint all of the good."

Erik nodded. Still, he made no move to break their embrace, or step any closer to the building that had been his home and his prison for the better part of two decades. Unfortunately, his stalling tactics were cut short when a familiar voice cried out behind them, "Oh, look, _there_ they are!" He and Christine turned in unison to see the Aldridges hurrying in their direction. Meg reached them first, breathless and grinning like the schoolgirl she had once been. She all but threw herself into Christine's arms, all the while chatting merrily, "We thought maybe the train was delayed due to the rain – just _ghastly_, isn't it? – but it looks like you've beat us here! I hope you haven't been waiting long."

"No, not at all," Christine assured her. "We just pulled up."

"Oh good, that's perfect timing then!" Suddenly remembering her manners, Meg released his wife and reached over to squeeze Erik's arm. Though the Aldridges had become like extended family over the years, fortunately she'd never quite gotten comfortable enough to actually embrace him. "And Erik, how are you, dear? How was the trip down?"

Unsure of which question she wanted him to answer, he simply forced a smile and made a general grunt of acknowledgment. That seemed to be perfectly acceptable to Meg, who had already taken Christine by the arm and begun to lead her up toward the main doors. With their backs turned to him and their voices muffled by the rain, he could only make out fragments of the conversation – "seems like just yesterday," "must be so proud," "yes, very excited," "surely be a triumph!" – as he reluctantly followed them up the opera's stone steps. Normally their fevered whispers and peals of girlish laughter were a source of unending annoyance to Erik, who was no more keen to share Christine now than he had been when she was a child flitting about the ballet dormitory with the Giry girl. Tonight, though, he found himself infinitely grateful for Meg's presence; it was clear that her enthusiastic anticipation of the evening was already beginning to rub off on Christine. That was the way it should be. If twittering animatedly with her oldest girlfriend would help his wife to focus on the excitement of the evening rather than their dark and morbid past here, well then, he supposed he could be patient.

He wasn't entirely sure when Rupert Aldridge fell into stride beside him. The Irishman was a thoughtful, observant sort of fellow, but when he did manage to get a word in edgewise, he had an excellent sense of humor. The two men had established an odd sort of camaraderie over the years – certainly not the brotherhood that Erik shared with Nadir, but rather something even more unfamiliar to him: a lighthearted friendship.

"You holdin' up there, old boy?" Rupert asked quietly when they neared the front doors. "Big night."

Erik proceeded slowly up the stairs without turning to look at his companion. He wasn't sure how much the Irishman knew about his history here, and he was not inclined to divulge any more of his past than absolutely necessary.

"Oh, we promised Claire we wouldn't do this, but of course there's no helping it. Surely we aren't the first parents to worry themselves ragged on a child's behalf, though."

"Ahh, there's no need for that. She'll be splendid."

"I have no doubt of it."

"Will you go back to see her before curtain?"

"No." Erik barked out a single, humorless laugh. "No, that would make it worse. We'd only make _her _nervous."

Rupert chuckled in turn. "Aye, better not, then."

Their wives were waiting for them on the landing just outside the door, and as soon as they reached them, Rupert fished in his coat pocket for their tickets. Oddly enough, it was the first time that Erik could ever recall holding a legitimate ticket to a performance at the _Populaire_; when he was young, he'd watched from the rafters, and once he'd mastered the art of manipulation, he'd held exclusive rights to the best box in the house for sixteen seasons he kept his attention intently focused upon the white slip in his hands, desperately attempting to draw out those last few seconds before he was faced with the enormity of the night ahead of him. He allowed the other three to move ahead of him and present their tickets to the doorman, and only once his own ticket stub was torn and handed back to him with a falsely cheerful "Enjoy the show, monsieur," did Erik finally look up at the magnificent lobby of his opera house.

The marble steps swept up before him, crowned in gold and glittering in the candlelight. The flames from the chandelier had never spilled this far into the building, and so the Grand Staircase remained untouched, immaculately preserved the way Erik had always remembered it. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he moved reluctantly up the first few steps, his gaze fixed upon the octagonal chassis at the junction of the three stairwells. Subconsciously, his toe slid forward to the hairline fissure around the perimeter of the trap door. _There_ – the tiny brass release lever, barely the width of a paper clip. Even the scullery maids, who vigorously scrubbed these stairs twice a day, had never discovered the mechanism that had allowed the Ghost to vanish with a burst of flame in front of several hundred onlookers.

Erik snapped his eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of memories, vainly attempting to push them back to that dark, forgotten part of his soul where he banished all that he could not face in himself. It had been easy enough to do in the sleepy coastal town where he had built his new life with Christine. But in this place, in this shrine to everything he didn't want to remember, the memories slipped through his iron-fisted control as easily as grains of sand through a sieve.

_Masquerade! Burning glances, turning heads…_

It was the fury he remembered first – merciless, scorching rage that flowed back into him as easily as lava seething down a mountain's edge. A diamond ring, sparkling with a malicious, mocking twinkle between perfect white breasts… the Vicomte's hand resting possessively at Christine's waist, as if he had any right to her, as if he _deserved_ her…

_Your chains are still mine. You belong to me!_

He jerked involuntarily at the gentle brush of fingers on his arm. Christine was eyeing him curiously, holding a paper booklet out for him.

"Erik? Did you want your own programme?"

He said nothing as his fingers closed numbly over the pamphlet. His gentle wife offered a smile, and Erik was undone. He stepped roughly away from her and took the remaining stairs two at a time. This was a mistake – a terrible, terrible mistake. He should have known that the Phantom would still hold power in his domain. He'd thought the severance clean, complete. But of course it was not that simple.

Wild-eyed and lost in the hazy ground between realities, he nearly bowled over another patron as the unfortunate fellow rounded a corner into Erik's path. Both men stopped just short of a collision, and suddenly a hand clapped Erik on the shoulder. He grabbed it and flung it violently away, only barely restraining himself from snapping the wrist in half.

"Easy!" the other man cried, taking a half step back. "Easy, Erik. Slow down. What's the matter?"

Erik blinked twice to clear the fire from his eyes, his chest heaving. "…Daroga."

Nadir paused only long enough to look him up and down once before taking a decisive step forward. "Walk with me," he commanded quietly.

The Persian maintained a measured, leisurely pace as they strode around the second floor perimeter. Occasionally he would stop to observe a statue or painting, feigning the admiration of a first-time visitor to the opera house. While his impossibly relaxed demeanor only served to further infuriate Erik at first, there did appear to be a method to the daroga's madness; by the time they reached the same spot in the circle again, Erik's breathing and pulse had steadied, and his head had cleared considerably.

Although his eyes were trained on the floor, he could feel himself being studied. "Are you ready to go in?" Nadir asked after a moment. "Or should we take another lap?"

Erik didn't answer; he simply started walking again. The Persian didn't miss a beat before falling into step beside him. Admirably, the daroga managed to bite back whatever lecture must have been hovering on the tip of his tongue, for he remained perfectly silent, waiting patiently for Erik to sort through his thoughts. They had nearly completed their second circuit around the building before the silence between them was finally broken.

"We never told Claire," Erik said. "Not about any of it. The Angel of Music, the Opera Ghost, Don Juan, the chandelier…" He shook his head forlornly, his eyes far away. "My own daughter has no idea who I am."

"Who you _were_," the daroga corrected. "You are not that man any more."

"Aren't I?"

Nadir fixed him with a hard look. "Don't be absurd."

"It isn't absurd! It's…" Erik sighed. "Difficult to explain. I don't expect you to understand."

"Try me."

Erik raked a hand back across his scalp, opening and closing his mouth several times as he struggled for the right words. "Twice in my life now I have left this place to burn. The first time was out of spite. The second was out of convenience. I had a wife and a child, a new life ahead of me. It was simpler to leave the past in flame, to move forward as if none of this had ever happened."

"Some memories are better left forgotten," Nadir agreed quietly. "You could not be expected to dwell perpetually on the darkest parts of your life."

"That was exactly my thought. I intended to start my life in Perros on a clean slate." He rubbed his eyes wearily. "When Claire was old enough to ask how Christine and I had met, we told her only the most basic of information – that her mother had been a chorus girl, that I had been her vocal instructor, that we'd fallen in love and moved up north to raise our family in Christine's childhood home. I suppose eventually we told the story so many times that it became our reality. It was so simple to trim out the undesirable parts of our past and paint our lives as a fairy tale. We said it was for Claire's sake, of course, but it was for us. It was for me. And here, in this place, I just…" He faltered, and put his head in his hands. "How can I face them? How can I stand beside Christine and maintain this charade of normalcy in the place where I – I lied to her, manipulated her, kidnapped her… _killed_ for her? I cannot even look at her, daroga. Not here. Not after what I've done."

There was a long pause in which Nadir considered him seriously. "So… you're saying that you're… sorry for what you've done?"

Erik flashed him an annoyed glance. Evidently this was enough of an answer for Nadir, who grinned, tilted his head back, and prayed jubilantly, "Allah, take me now, for my work on earth is complete; he's _finally _developed a conscience!"

With a snort of disgust, Erik turned on his heel and proceeded to march off in the opposite direction. The pesky daroga hurried after him, still chortling at his own joke as he jogged to keep up with the masked man's longer strides. "Oh, come, now," he panted, "It was a _compliment!_"

The lights began to flash as Erik reached the top of the staircase, and he stopped in his tracks, nearly causing Nadir to bowl into him from behind. His eyes snapped to the nearest opalescent globe, and he felt his gut wrench with each deliberate flicker. All around them, a trickle of late-comers went hurrying toward the nearest doors. The first, discordant notes drifted up from the orchestra pit as the musicians tuned and tested their instruments. He was out of time.

Erik's gaze flickered to the daroga, who watched him with perfect seriousness now, waiting for a decision. Nadir would not judge him if he chose to run. He would think up an excellent excuse for Erik's sudden absence, though none of their companions would believe it. Perhaps Meg would be relieved that his dark, brooding presence would not spoil the night. Her mother was here as well – Giry was never one to pry into Erik's personal matters, though. Rupert would be confused, but the gentle Irishman would never make any further mention of it. And Christine…

What would Christine think?

His wife had been patient with him – inordinately so. From their very first conversation about this night through their embrace just outside, she had been nothing but supportive. More than anyone, she understood how difficult this was for him; she'd lived through the same nightmare. And yet while he cowered in the lobby, Christine was already in her seat, no doubt perusing the programme for their daughter's name and awaiting the performance with the fluttering, giddy, nervous excitement of any other mother in the audience.

Shame lanced through him, then, so sharply that the breath caught in his chest. What kind of father did it make him, that he would even _consider_ balking at such a critical moment in his child's life? Claire had always looked up to him with reverence and love beyond anything he deserved; he was her hero and her best friend. At this very minute, his precious girl might be peering through the curtains, scanning the audience for the familiar masked face in the crowd, looking for an encouraging smile to calm her nerves and assure her that she would do beautifully.

Without another moment's hesitation, Erik turned on his heel and marched resolutely into the auditorium. He did his best to ignore his surroundings altogether – the polished gold statues, the newly upholstered seats, the smell of fresh paint and sawdust. Instead, he busied himself with locating the rest of their party in the audience. Fortunately, Christine had been thoughtful enough to save the two aisle seats for him and Nadir. She waved her hand at him when he caught her eye, gesturing insistently for him to hurry up. Indeed, Erik and the daroga barely made it to their seats before the house lights dimmed, and the orchestra struck the first, glorious notes of the overture.

A delicate frown creased his wife's brow as she leaned in toward him, whispering, "Are you all right?

"Fine," he said shortly. Christine raised an eyebrow and looked over at Nadir, who gave her a little nod of assent. She eyed them both warily for another moment before settling back in her seat to watch the performance.

In the darkness of the theater, Erik waited to be overwhelmed by another vicious ambush of memories. He allowed his gaze to sweep over the newly reconstructed stage, the luxurious red curtains, then up to Box Five, and finally, the glittering chandelier. More than anything, he was struck by how … _different_ everything looked. He could not pinpoint exactly what had changed, but it was almost as if he were in an entirely different venue from the one he'd haunted so many years ago.

And then it hit him. Though Nadir had made a joke of it, there was a consummate truth to the Persian's words: it was not the place that had changed; it was _Erik_. This was the first performance he had ever attended, not as the Phantom, but as a father… as a normal man.

The relief that rippled through him at the revelation was so profound that he nearly wept. It was all right, now. It was all right to be here, with his wife, in this place and time – two proud parents, watching their daughter's debut at one of the finest opera houses in the world.

He slipped his hand into Christine's, and leaned over to kiss her as the curtain rose.

**A/N: I had considered ending the chapter here, but let's end on a light note, shall we? ;) **

Erik was on his feet the moment the opera's final chords rang out, applauding so hard that his hands stung. He could not have wiped the foolish grin from his face if he'd wanted to. All biases aside, the production had been one of the best he'd ever seen performed on this stage. He'd had serious doubts about _La traviata_ after having seen the piece slaughtered innumerable times, but it appeared the current management was far more competent than any of the idiots Erik had been forced to deal with in the past. Of course, this new administration had criminally under-cast his daughter, but after her delightful turn as Flora Bervoix tonight, there was no doubt in Erik's mind that this would be an error quickly remedied.

Claire was the third member of the company to run forward for her bow, amidst the cheers and rapturous applause of the audience. She had no trouble picking out her row of supporters in the crowd; between Erik and Christine, the Aldridges, Nadir and Madame Giry, the exultant cries of "brava!" were impossible to miss. Her beautiful face split in a grin as she dipped in a curtsy, gave a little embarrassed laugh at the enthusiastic applause, and then stepped gracefully aside to allow her fellow cast mates to step forward. Once the prima donna and principal tenor soaked in their (embellished and distastefully drawn out) time in the limelight, the company rejoined in a line to take their final bow. The audience's response was explosive, and even from the twenty-sixth row Erik could see the appreciative tears in Claire's eyes. A tingling warmth spread in his chest as he watched her; he had never seen his daughter so happy, so _alive_.

When the curtain finally fell and the house lights brightened, Erik remembered with a sudden twinge of annoyance why precisely it came in handy to have a hollow pillar attached to one's box. Every audience member in the orchestra section was suddenly on their feet, squeezing through the aisles in uncomfortably close quarters as everyone meandered at a glacial pace in the direction of the exits at the back of the theater. Thankfully, there were benefits to being the former Trap-Door Lover; within moments, Erik managed to guide his small entourage to an unmarked wooden door near the front of the auditorium – down through the orchestra pit, up a few flights of stairs to a music supply and storage room, and from there a sharp right back to the dressing room corridor.

The backstage area was, unfortunately, no less crowded than the auditorium had been; a multitude of dancers, chorus girls, crewmen, admirers and varying members of the management milled throughout the corridor, laughing, drinking, and congratulating one another on a successful opening night. There was barely enough room to proceed single-file through the throngs of people, and so Erik gestured over his companions' heads in the direction of Claire's dressing room. Once everyone seemed to have a general idea of where they were attempting to go, Erik broke off from the group and began to weave through the crowd, feeling very much like a fish attempting to swim upstream. He was within ten paces of his daughter's dressing room when he saw the door open. He had just begun to raise his hand in greeting when he stopped cold in his tracks.

It was not his daughter who stepped out of the room.

It was a _boy_.

Erik caught only a brief glimpse of the youth – dark curls, clean-shaven, smartly dressed – before he disappeared into the crowd. For a moment he considered hunting him down like a bloodhound, but then Claire _did_ poke her head out of the dressing room, and caught his eye almost immediately.

"Papa, over here!" she called, beckoning him forward.

He pushed through the remainder of the crowd perhaps a bit more aggressively than was necessary, and reached his daughter in a matter of seconds.

"Who was that?" he demanded, pointing an accusing finger in the direction of the boy's retreating back.

Claire had the good grace to blush, at least, before rolling her eyes. "Oh, Papa," she laughed, pulling him into an embrace. "Tonight, of all nights, that's the first thing you think to say to me?"

Erik kissed the top of her curly head, took her by the shoulders, and held her back so that he could look her in the face. "Hello, darling," he obliged. "I've missed you terribly. You were stunning tonight, and I'm inexpressibly proud of you. Now, _who was that_?"

Claire hesitated only a fraction of a second before opportunely locating the other women several paces behind him. "Maman!" she trilled, ducking out of Erik's grasp and into the safety of her female relatives' arms. "Aunt Meg, Mémé!"

"O-ho, you won't get off that easily, young mademoiselle!" Erik called after her.

Nadir made his way up to him at that point, his arms full of the women's coats and furs. "Who is getting away with what, now?"

"There was a boy," Erik snarled, severely regretting the fact that he'd not taken the young man off to one side for questioning when he'd had the chance.

To his credit, the daroga made a valiant effort to suppress the grin that played at the corner of his mouth. "My, my, that didn't take her long."

Despite his considerable height, there were simply too many people packed in the backstage hall for Erik to be able to find the boy in the crowd again. Scowling, he craned his neck as he tried to see around a chorus girl's feathered headdress.

"I wonder if the torture chamber survived the fire," he muttered under his breath.

"_Erik_."

"Just a morbid curiosity, of course." Reluctantly, Erik abandoned his attempt to locate the boy, and shifted his gaze back to his daughter. She was chatting away merrily with the other women, bearing a bright, innocent smile – _too_ innocent, he decided.

Nadir followed the masked man's gaze, and offered a shrug. "Perhaps you're making more out of it than there really is?"

Erik didn't bother to dignify the daroga with a response as he pushed past him and marched purposefully in Claire's direction. No sooner had he made it within earshot, however, than Christine suddenly looked up with a smile and held her hand out to him.

"Oh, darling, Claire was just saying that she would like to have her celebratory dinner at le Café de la Paix. Would you be a dear and make the arrangements?" She began to count heads under her breath, and then added, "There are seven of us, so we'll need two cabs – oh, Meg, don't be ridiculous, put your purse away. We'll take care of it—"

Before he was entirely sure what was happening, Erik was being shuffled in the direction of the nearest exit, handed an umbrella, and sent outside into the pouring rain. He hadn't had even the slightest window of opportunity to get a single word in, let alone to interrogate his daughter. Grumblingly, he tucked his questions aside for the time being, but not before throwing one last glance at Claire over Christine's shoulder and mouthing, "This is not over yet!"

He was _certain_ he did not imagine the smug look of triumph that passed between mother and daughter as he ducked out the door.

The food was delicious, the champagne superb, but Erik took no notice of either as he stewed at the far end of the table, watching his daughter with a hawk's eye for the tiniest gesture or expression that might give her infatuation away. The rest of his party, however, seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. After two or three glasses of champagne, Christine and Meg's recollections of their days in the dormitories grew quite elaborate indeed, resulting in many an unintended slip of the tongue and resulting giggles. Rupert and Claire laughed until they were red-cheeked and gasping for air, and Madame Giry buried her head in her hands, shaking her head in feigned misery.

"It's true!" she cried on more than one occasion. "It's all true. Can you believe what these girls put me through?"

"Maman, I can't believe you were such a troublemaker!" said Claire, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.

"Oh, Christine was the _worst_," Meg hiccoughed, and then laughed at herself. "Little Lotte with her head in the clouds, always late for practice because the Angel had—"

The electricity that flashed through the room was almost palpable. Erik's eyes snapped to Meg in a blaze of warning as former ballerina's face blushed a dark red. Christine and Madame Giry had gone stiff, and Claire looked from one woman to the next, puzzled.

"Because what?" she asked. "What did I miss?"

Christine broke from her reverie with a laugh that was only a little too high-pitched. She reached over and jokingly took the champagne glass out of her friend's hands, trying to make light of the moment. "Maybe _water_ would be a good idea for the rest of the night, Meg."

Meg put her hands to her burning cheeks and agreed, "Ooh, I think maybe so." She took a long drink of water, but even with Christine's quick cover, the awkwardness of the moment remained. With a little cough, Meg set her water glass down and turned to her husband, still blushing. "Actually, darling, it's been a very long day. Perhaps it would be best if we head back to the hotel—"

"We should be going as well," Christine agreed quickly.

Suddenly several chairs scraped back at once as Erik, Rupert and Nadir rose to help the women to their feet. Handshakes, kisses and hugs were exchanged all around, while only Claire remained seated with a peculiar look on her face, still trying to figure out what exactly she had missed. She rose only when her extended family came forward to embrace and congratulate her one last time. Erik hung back, waiting for everyone else to say their goodbyes before finally stepping toward his only child.

A smile, rich and genuine and beautiful, warmed Claire's face as he opened his arms to her. She fell gratefully into his embrace, and gave a contented little sigh as he held her tightly.

"Thank you so much for coming, Papa."

He pressed a kiss to the top of her forehead, and found himself blinking against a sudden saline sting in his eyes. "You truly were magnificent, _ma petite_."

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Of course."

The first fifteen minutes of the carriage ride from the Café de la Paix to Nadir's flat in Vaugirard were spent in peaceful silence. Christine had begun to nod off against Erik's shoulder, and he rested his cheek on her curls, lost in his own reverie. It didn't take long for his thoughts to turn once again to the mysterious young man outside of Claire's dressing room. He tortured himself for several minutes, replaying the images over and over in his mind's eye. The scene struck just a bit too close to home for Erik's comfort; he could not help but think of another brilliant young soprano's debut, and the handsome young suitor who had sought her out in her dressing room after the night's success. But this time, there was no Angel to intervene, no two-way mirror, no way to prevent the inevitable…

And the simple fact remained: Erik was not yet ready to lose his only child, his treasure. No man would ever be good enough for her, but especially not _now_, not when she had such a promising career ahead of her, not when she was still so young and impressionable and…

"Christine?"

She hummed sleepily, and snuggled herself a bit closer into the crook of his neck.

"Did you see a young man leave Claire's dressing room just before we arrived?"

There was a long pause before his wife shifted and gave a little sigh. "Erik, I'm tired."

"But you did see him?"

"I wasn't honestly paying much attention. But yes, I suppose I did."

"Well, I saw him. And mark my word, Christine, the boy had a look about him."

His wife yawned, and made a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat.

"And he was strutting. Do you know what the implication of a _strut_ is?"

"That he's an adolescent boy?" Christine offered wryly.

Erik paused to consider that. "Adolescent? Really? You thought so? I didn't get a very good look at him, but I had supposed him to be in his early twenties, at least…"

Suddenly Christine sat up, took his face firmly in her gloved hands, and forced him to look her in the eye. "Erik. Darling. You're over-thinking this. Please, just let it go."

He drew in a deep breath, and nodded. "Of course. You're right." Christine gave him a quick peck on the lips before releasing him and laying her head back down on his shoulder. "Quite right," Erik continued to mutter to himself. "There's nothing to think about."

"That's right."

"Just an old man's overactive imagination."

"Mm-hmm."

They passed another two blocks in silence before Erik blurted out, "But if you had to wager an educated guess, how old would you say he was? Eighteen? Nineteen?"

Nadir made it back to his apartment just ahead of Erik and Christine; he was tipping his driver when their cab pulled up just behind him. He waited politely for them to climb out and pay, and then assisted Erik with bringing the luggage up the steps and into the house. Ever the wonderful host, he came back for their coats as soon as he had taken the trunks back to the guest room. While Erik was turned to one side, Christine took the opportunity to lean forward and whisper something in the Persian's ear. Erik turned back around just in time to see the daroga narrow his eyes at her as Christine tightened her lips in a grimace.

"How bad?" Nadir asked.

"You'd best make it double strength," she answered somberly.

Immediately sensing that something was awry, Erik frowned, looking from his wife to his best friend. "What's going on?"

"Nadir is just going to put some tea on."

The frown deepened suspiciously. "Tea? It's nearly midnight. I thought you were tired."

"Oh, I am." Right on cue, Christine let out a long yawn and stretched her arms lazily above her head before allowing them to interlock behind his neck. "I'm going straight to bed." She kissed him soundly, then patted his smooth cheek. "Be nice to poor Nadir, do you hear me?"

Erik's eyes narrowed to green slits. "Why? What did he do?"

"Absolutely nothing!" came an insistent cry from the kitchen, followed by indistinct grumbling, "don't know why I even bother…"

Christine cleared her throat delicately, swallowed, and suddenly became very interested in the lapels of his vest. "I, ah, ran into an old acquaintance at the opera tonight." She paused, waiting for a reaction. When Erik simply continued to stare at her, she continued hastily, "It wasn't any great thing, of course, so that's why I didn't mention it to you before. But on my way back from the powder room, I just happened to stumble upon Raoul de Chagny."

A completely blank, unreadable expression settled over Erik's features. "Did you."

A crimson blush rose in his wife's neck and cheeks. "Yes. He, ah, he's doing very well for himself. Remarried to a Duchess. From Rennes, I believe? That's where they're living now, anyway. He is only in town for the weekend, visiting his eldest son at Lycée Louis-le-Grand." There was something about the tone of her voice that hinted to Erik that he was meant to pick up on something of great significance in this little anecdote. He ran the information through his head again, picking through the key words. Rennes? Louis-le-Grand? Still, nothing. Sensing that he wasn't following her, Christine continued, "His son was there with him at the opera tonight, actually. A perfectly charming boy, I thought. Very sweet and well-mannered."

With a subtle shake of his head, Erik surrendered the little game. His wife's hints were getting him nowhere, and his patience with the subject grew thin. "Why are you telling me this?"

At that precise moment Nadir stepped into the living room, balancing a tray laden with pastries, clotted cream, dried fruit and a large pot of scalding tea. He and Christine exchanged weighted glances, which did nothing to help with the gnawing sense of anticipation in Erik's gut.

He asked again, in a tone sharpened by suspicion, "Christine, why are you telling me this?"

"Well," she said haltingly, "I haven't… been… entirely truthful with you. About the boy outside of Claire's dressing room?" She shifted uncomfortably, chewing the inside of her bottom lip. "I did actually see him. I waved, but he was facing the other direction, and I don't think he saw me, or else he would have come and properly introduced himself to you, I'm sure. Like I said, he's a very sweet boy—"

And suddenly Erik _did_ remember. Raoul's oldest son… _Emily's_ son…

"His name is Cedric. Cedric de Chagny."

Across the room, Nadir spit out a mouthful of tea with a loud sputter.

"Anyway," Christine said abruptly. "Just thought I would put your mind to rest on the subject. I'm off to bed. Good night, darling!" She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, snuck a dried apricot off of the tea tray, and fled for the guest room without another word.

Erik blinked once when the click of the guest room door echoed down the hall. A numb, tingling sensation had begun to prickle in the back of his brain, trickling slowly down his spinal cord and out through his peripheral nerves. The hairs on the back of his neck sprung erect, and gooseflesh spread in waves down the length of his arms. Slowly, very slowly, he turned to face the daroga, who now sat munching innocently on a cranberry scone. A smile twitched at the corner of the Persian's mouth as he lifted a steaming porcelain cup in Erik's direction.

"Tea?"

_Fin_

**A/N: Oh my god… can you guys believe it? Evergreen is complete (FINALLY!). **

**For those of you who have stuck with this story since its very first post in 2005, you will never know how much your support has meant to me. I would like to nominate each of you for sainthood for your patience, and I can only hope that the final product was worth the wait.**

**To all readers, both old and new, thank you from the bottom of my heart for coming on this journey with me. I've learned so much from writing this story, and from the wonderful feedback you've left me over the years. I'd be nowhere without you guys!**

**Another, final thank you to the lovely ladies who served as beta-readers at various points throughout this fic – Marianne Brandon, Hriviel, Llandaf, your help was truly invaluable. **

**Special thanks also to Flora Grey, who seriously read like eight or nine (or eighty or ninety) versions of this last chapter, put up with my incessant whining, doggedly insisted that I keep writing, and pushed me through the worst of my writer's block, when I literally had to feed her my paragraphs sentence by sentence (sometimes word by word, oops). She's my hero. **

**And last but most certainly not least – Sandy. Seriously. This woman should be given co-writing credit. She was with me from the drawing board (a summer night in Chicago, circa 2005: sketch pad, several 2 liters of Mountain Dew, waffles, and an all-nighter) to the bitter end… which she still hates me for, alas… Love you, sweet girl. Never would have finished without you; never would have gotten past chapter THREE without you! I'm so proud of our baby!**

**That's it for now, folks! Thank you, again, a**_** million**_** times over… And, one last time, I have to ask: if you read it, and enjoyed it (or read it, hated it, and would like to leave me some constructive criticism!), please click that little review button and tell me all about it! :)**

**Love, hugs, and bittersweet tears all around,**

**Nade-Naberrie**


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